


He Had Come to Study

by nameless_bliss



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Carlos is a Dork, Carlos's Science, Carlos's Science Team - Freeform, Carlos-centric, Cecil is a bigger dork, Developing Relationship, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, For Science!, For the most part, Gen, M/M, Night Vale Community Radio, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Pre-Relationship, Present Tense, Slightly Sentient Radio?, Slow Burn, Some Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 55,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I didn't know you listen to my show."<br/>"Every time you're on."</p><p>Series of first-person present-tense ficlets from Carlos's POV as he listens to Night Vale Radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything about him was perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale or its characters. I do this solely as an outlet to express my overload of feels.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  ****

_“And I fell in love instantly.”_

What the fuck?!

I spit out my coffee.

Was I drinking coffee? I must have been.

I glance around my desk. There’s no coffee.

Okay, let’s just ignore that.

I look over at the radio, an old-fashioned box perched rather precariously on a high shelf in the far corner of the lab. I haven’t seen anyone touch it, but it definitely _wasn’t_ on before this show started. I had bigger things to worry about when it suddenly crackled to life, so I chalked it up to a timer function and kept on with my work. But now I’m starting to worry about it again. Because when he started talking about me… it definitely got louder.

No, of course it didn’t. That’s just human nature. Speech automatically becomes clearer when it’s about you. Probably something to do with ego, or curiosity, or morbid fear. The volume didn’t increase, I just started listening more carefully.

Even so, I must have misheard him.

Right?

There’s no way a radio host just declared his love for me in a city-wide broadcast after only having had half a conversation with me.

...right?

It must be a saying. Some sort of Night Valean custom that wasn’t included in the Welcome Pamphlet the City Council representative left in my microwave while I was sleeping. Somewhere between the PTA schedule and the protocol for safely removing a nest of invisible wolf spiders from the kitchen sink without being rude, they must have forgotten to add: ‘It is common courtesy to welcome new members of the community with public expressions of affection that cannot - by any means - have been authentically reached by the time of said expression.’ Or maybe ‘love’ means something different in Night Vale. Something friendly, exclusively platonic and casual. Hell, from what I’ve seen so far, I wouldn’t be surprised if ideas like romantic love are expressed by something else entirely, something much more interesting than a simple four-letter word. Like… setting a bouquet of flowers on fire and… baking the ashes into a… cookie.

My imagination hasn’t quite caught up with my surroundings.

What was I doing?

Oh, wiping up the fine mist of non-existent coffee I spit-taked (spit-took? ...spat-taked?) all over my laptop. Hopefully the fact that I hadn’t actually been drinking anything means it can’t cause any damage. The paper towel dispenser is all the way across the lab. Not worth it. I pull down the sleeve of my labcoat and carefully wipe it across the screen.

Oh fuck.

I could have kept some of that. Tested it to see if it really was coffee. I look at my sleeve. There’s a damp, light brown stain across the cuff. Maybe I can still get a sample out of there.

‘And I fell in love instantly.’

Did he really-

Nope.

Stop that.

Not thinking about it. No point. Focus.

Okay, back to my notes. I was just getting to the report about the post office-

It must be something about the town. Some city-wide quirk, something easily explainable and not at all having _anything_ to actually do with me. Or Cecil. If it’s some strange custom, he’d be the most enthusiastic about upholding it. From the sound of it, Cecil is the most… Night Vale of them all. God, that was dumb. From the _sound_ of it. ‘From the _sound_ of it, the _voice_ of Night Vale is super-duper Night Vale.’ I can see how you earned that grant money, genius. Stop thinking about people. You’re terrible at people. Go back to science. You’re good at science.  

What’s that sound? That doesn’t sound like science.

I turn around. Monica is giggling. Or snickering. I’m not the best with subtle differences like that. She’s looking right at me. She glances at the radio. She looks back to me. She winks, big and broad, like some sort of punch line even though I didn’t hear the joke.

Oh god.

It’s not the town.

It _is_ Cecil.

Monica has spent her whole life with this radio, with this show, with this man’s voice. And with that reaction, he clearly _doesn’t_ say this about everyone. It _isn’t_ a polite way to greet new citizens. He’s _not_ being sarcastic.

There must be some way to literally die of embarrassment. The heart rate increasing so fast that it reaches some critical overload and spontaneously stops altogether. The desire to collapse in on oneself becoming so strong that the subject smothers itself until it suffocates. The rush of blood to the face heating the skin so much that it catches fire.

Maybe no one would notice if I hide under the desk…

Is anyone looking?

Don’t look. They’ll see you looking. They’ll see how inhumanly red your face is. They’ll _know_. They’ll know that you heard that man say he fell in love with you. And talked about your hair like it isn’t a mop of curls that you could never figure out how to tame. And compared your teeth to a cemetery and managed to make it sound… poetic, instead of gruesome. Like good teeth are supposed to look like cemeteries. Like he really means it. Like he genuinely thinks you’re beautiful.

Maybe he was talking about someone else. Somewhere between the last time he said ‘Carlos’ and the next time he said ‘He’, he had changed the subject. He just forgot to segue. Someone else is perfect. Not me. He was looking right at me. He was introduced to me. He must have seen how crooked my glasses are. How my nose is entirely disproportionate to my face. How my obviously imperfect hair sticks up like a hedgehog put through a cotton-candy spinner. He must have heard how my voice cracked when I was speaking at the town meeting. My voice cracks when I get excited. And I was so excited. This town is so exciting. I don’t understand any of it. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that I don’t understand this voice on the radio either. Because he was there. He saw me bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet when I mentioned how scientifically interesting this town is. He saw my smile, one of those big smiles that’s too big for my face. I feel like I become at least eighty-percent teeth when I smile like that. Like a poorly-drawn cartoon. Like a caricature done at a cheap carnival.

‘And I fell in love instantly.’

Hm. Maybe it was kind of nice to hear that, actually. It’s a… nice sentiment. Very nice. It’s not like anyone else has ever-

Nope.

Stop that.

They’re talking. I can hear them. We’re supposed to be scientists, goddammit, stop giggling - or snickering - at the radio and do something useful. Figure out why the grass outside the lab changes color every time someone slams the door at Big Rico’s. Figure out why magenta grass is such a popular pizza topping. Figure out anything. Just stop trying to figure out if I heard what he said.

I did.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to un-hear it.

Un-hearing isn’t even a thing.

Alright Carlos, enough is enough. Obviously. What an unnecessary tautology. Maybe I really do need some coffee.

No, what I really need is to start doing something useful. I’ve stared at my list of possible experiments for over half an hour now, trying to decide which one seems the most… normal. I need to accept the fact that _none_ of them are anywhere near normal.

Fuck it.

I close my eyes, and point to my screen.

I slowly open one eye.

Underneath my finger, it says ‘Unusual Seismic Activity’.

Oh.

That seems… almost normal.

More normal than “House that Does Not Exist” anyway.

Well, better pack up my equipment. Seismic activity is easy to monitor. There shouldn’t be too much trouble with this one. If Monica has composed herself, I’ll ask her to go with me. She knows this town better than the rest of us.

I glance at the radio. I don’t know why. It had gotten quiet again, when he stopped talking about me. I’m not quite sure what he’s saying anymore. He’s talking about lights now, lights above Arby’s. I don’t understand what he means.

But his voice is loud again.

_“Settling in to be another clear and pretty evening here in Night Vale. I hope all of you out there have someone to sleep through it with. Or at least, good memories of when you did._

_Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.”_


	2. I'm going to get a little personal here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Two: "Glow Cloud"

_“That’s the essence of life, isn’t it?”_

Oh.

That’s, well…

Oh.

      

_“Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time - like a mysterious glowing cloud devouring your entire community - and while they’re happening, they feel like the only thing that matters. And you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that has anything else going on. And then the Glow Cloud moves on. And you move on. And the event is behind you.”_

Cecil, that-

I didn’t expect that.

I know a few weeks in a town like Night Vale doesn’t give me the necessary perception to _expect_ anything, but still…

I didn’t expect that.

I look down at the test tube I’ve been clenching in sweaty fingers. I swallow, just to determine if that lump in the back of my throat is a new permanent fixture. I briefly remember the last slice I had at Big Rico’s, and the strange shape under the cheese that I was promised was a cherry tomato. Now the lump in my throat feels distinctly spider-shaped. I swear I can feel the moment when my saliva collides with the roiling pit of acid slowly crawling up my insides no matter how many tums or zantac or pepto bismol I down in an attempt to extinguish it.

That’s an inaccurate metaphor. You don’t extinguish acid.

Well, maybe you do in Night Vale.

The words play in my mind again, somehow managing to drown out your real voice as it seeps through every crack and corner of the lab.

‘While they’re happening, they feel like the only thing that matters.’

How did you know?

‘And you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that has anything else going on.’

I can’t. I truly can’t. I can’t remember a time when this wasn’t happening. I can’t remember a time outside of Night Vale anymore. I can’t remember a time when I was working on simple research papers, solving simple scientific mysteries, getting results that I could _understand_ and everyone _else_ could understand too. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t clutching this goddamn test tube of water from the oasis that manifested in the parking lot of the Ralph’s. I’ve been staring at it my entire life. My only scientific goal, the only one I’ve ever had in my time on this earth, has been to determine the properties of the water, to try and determine where it came from and how it got there, and if it’s dangerous to humans. Because: science.

And because: upcoming proposal for an increase in grant money.

And because: irritated Ralph’s customers unable to park their cars in the waist-high water.

And because: stop asking.

And because:

I’m not sure this is even about science anymore. This is about so many things. So many things that are more complicated and confusing and dangerous and terrible and frustrating than science. Science is easy. This is… Night Vale.

How did this happen? One minute, I’m floating high as a cloud (metaphorically speaking, of course), basking in all the exciting mysteries and possibilities and the promise of unlimited discovery. And now all of a sudden I’m… stuck. The only time I’ve floated high as a cloud lately was last Tuesday when I offered to help Old Woman Josie get the baseball one of the local kids got stuck on her roof. And I don’t know what the hell those… friends… of hers did to me, but the floating was very literal.

One minute, I’m a scientist.

The next… I don’t know anymore.

Because one minute I know what I’m doing and I do it so well and it’s the one thing in my life that I can actually say that about with confidence. I am a good scientist.

I _was_ a good scientist.

But now I’m still holding this test tube and I was _this close_ to figuring out why it contains salt levels consistent with oceans yet only supports exclusively fresh-water plant life and then that _goddamn fucking fuck of a cloud_ drops a dead ocelot right in the middle of the oasis and the entire chemistry of the water just… changes. It fucking changes! And now I don’t know what the fuck I have in my hand but it sure as fuck isn’t a test tube of salt water that can sustain plant life. I don’t know what the fuck it is and my team is expecting me to know by now and _I’m_ expecting me to have known by yesterday and people still can’t park at the Ralph’s and it’s losing business and the stress-induced heartburn is so strong I can taste fucking acid on my tongue and I really need to find a swear word stronger than ‘fuck’ because I’ve worn it out so much that it doesn’t accurately express my complete and utter failure anymore and-

‘And then the Glow Cloud moves on.’

Breathe.

‘And _you_ move on.’

My hands stop shaking. I don’t remember when they started. Some of the water spilled out the edge of the test tube and landed on my hand. It’s turning my skin… purple. A nice, rich purple. Regal-looking. It’s steaming, like it should be burning, but it’s not. It’s soft. The bead of water slips off of my hand and lands on the desk. The purple spot still feels soft, like a gentle massage. The color doesn’t fade.

I should probably be worried about this.

Fuck it.

‘And the event is behind you.’

How did you know, Cecil?

I needed to hear that.

I needed it so badly, and you just… said it. Better than I ever could have, even though it’s such a simple idea.

I don’t understand how you knew-

Oh god, Carlos, pull yourself together.

Feelings are universal. Especially feelings like this. He’s not speaking _to me_ like we’re having some sort of personal pep-talk. He’s on the _radio_. He’s talking to everyone. He’s saying something simple and understandable that everyone can twist and bend however they need to give them inspiration in this moment. He doesn’t know what I’m going through right now.

But...

He hasn’t done another report on the oasis.

He could have been using his show to pester me just as much as everyone else is. He clearly has no issue slipping small complaints into his broadcast when the mood strikes. But he’s left this alone.

I wonder if…

No.

That doesn’t make any sense.

But maybe… maybe he’s giving me a break.

Maybe he _is_ talking to me right now.

Thanks, Cecil.

I’m smiling. I haven’t done that in a while.

You’re listing things now. I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t know what this list is supposed to be. They’re just… things. But I close my eyes for a few moments, and the words hold meaning. I don’t know what that meaning is, but I know it’s there. And - oh - I can’t taste acid in my throat anymore. A cool wash has spread down my esophagus and into my stomach, soothing away the heartburn for the first time in days. It’ll probably come back. I know that.

But for now I’ll just enjoy the relief. I’ll enjoy the way each word from the radio cools things just a little bit more. I’ll enjoy the fact that my own body doesn’t taste like acid anymore. It tastes like… vanilla.

_“Night. Rest. Sleep. End._

_Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.”_ **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for all of the positive feedback! This is the first fic I've published and seeing the response has been amazing so far (and it's just getting started)! I hope you'll stick around and enjoy the rest! =)
> 
>  


	3. Such a simple, but important act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode Three: "Station Management"

_“...as luridly admiring Carlos’s stunning coif?”_

 

Wait.

You-

Are you kidding?

My head snaps up to look at the radio. I must have dozed off, or gotten lost in my imagination. It almost sounded like Cecil was… _chastising_ me for getting a haircut.

How do you rewind the radio?

No.

Yes.

You most definitely _are_ chastising me for getting a haircut. Or, you’re chastising the person who cut it. Or… both of us? I can’t quite tell. I’m too stunned to really process your words.

Cecil.

What the fuck.

I got a haircut.

It’s a fucking _desert_.

I’m not used to living in a fucking desert. I’m not used to living in an environment where impossibly hot sunbeams soak into my black hair like every strand is some sort of leech, sucking in heat like it’s afraid it’ll never find warmth again. And on top of that, I’m a scientist. I spend most of my day hunched over my lab desk. It gets tiring having to push my hair out of my eyes every five seconds, or having to tug it out from behind my glasses, or getting my fingers stuck in the inevitable tangles.

And on top of that… it’s _my_ hair. I shouldn't have to defend myself for chopping it all off. The reasons don’t matter.

I mean, it’s hair, Cecil. Dead strings twisting out of my scalp. Even if you thought it was ‘perfect’ (which it wasn't; it looked like crap), that doesn't change the fact that it was just hair. Most people have hair. You have your own hair, and it looks significantly better than mine did.

Frankly, I think I’m a little relieved. Hopefully this means the epic saga of my ‘perfect hair’ has ended, snipped to death by barber’s shears and swept into the garbage where it belonged. I didn't like it, Cecil. I don’t know if your voice has some strange, hypnotic powers, or if people automatically believe everything you say, or if fashion sensibility is _very_ different in Night Vale, but ever since you started talking about my hair… everyone else started talking about it too. I can hear them when I walk down the street. Words like ‘lovely’ and ‘stunning’ and I definitely heard something about 'Apollo' last week. Regardless of the fact that none of it is true, it’s weird. I’m not used to even having people talk _to_ me, much less _about_ me. People I've never met. People I've never even seen before. How do they all know who I am, anyway? If all they have to go off of is 'scientist with the really good hair', they should probably be looking at David. I suppose in a small town like this, it’s easy to recognize the outsider.

But that’s not the point. The point is, I don’t like being talked about like that. I don’t like walking through Mission Grove Park and seeing people gasp, pointing at my head with open-mouthed awe. At first I assumed it was just… you know… Night Vale. Up until that little boy said “it’s just as perfect as he says it is!” Then I realized, it’s not Night Vale at all.

It’s Cecil.

Maybe there isn't really a difference.

I think maybe your opinions are the opinions of the people. Or… they somehow become the opinions of the people, just because you voiced them. Either way, there seems to be an uncomfortable amount of similarity between what you say and what everyone else does.

It’s just hair.

It's better now, anyway. It’s at that buzzed length where you can run your hands across it and it feels nice on your skin. Like a clean, soft blanket. Before, it was a mop. Actually, I've seen mops that were much better groomed than that. And with this heat, it was perpetually damp with sweat. I grimace just at the thought of it. One step outside was all it took. One flash of sunlight, and the beads pooled all over my scalp. If I stayed outside too long, it _dripped_. If you ran your hands through that rat’s nest, it would have been like petting an angry poodle that just ran through a steaming hot swamp. Soft blankets are better than angry poodles, regardless of the context. A few members of the research team even told me it looked nice. Maybe they’ll change their minds now that they've listened to the voice on the radio-

Ugh.

Just focus.

Books.

Books, books… books.

They’re all over the lab.

It started with just one. Just a history textbook from the high school. The sparks didn't damage any of the pages, but of course, anything _else_ they landed on immediately went up in flames. The second book was in hopes to find one a little less… dangerous. “Scaramouche” (historical fiction, Sabatini) didn't set off a single spark, but the gas killed every bit of plant material in the lab. Including the ficus.

Still not sure what to make of that.

So they brought more books. More and more and more and now they’re everywhere. And we still don’t know what’s wrong with them. But hey, at least now we know that the problems seem to be divided by genre. Non-fiction: sparks. Romance: biting. Mystery: shrieking and howling. And the spreadsheet goes on. Luckily, only one genre has been found to be fatal: children’s lit. Maybe ‘luckily’ isn't the right word. The genres have all been quarantined, but somehow I don’t feel much safer. I can’t imagine the library is a very pleasant place to be right now.

_Ouch!_

Fuck!

“The Scarlet Pimpernel” (historical fiction, Orczy) just burned me. I wasn't paying attention and I guess I left my thumb on the cover a bit too long. The French Revolution is kicking my ass today.

I get up, cross to the sink to run it under some cold water - carefully avoiding the dog cage full of Vonnegut paperbacks that are acting… well, dog-like. The radio is perched above me, Cecil’s voice a little deeper as the bass reverberates through the shelving.

 

_“He talks with an accent, and sneers. Telly the barber cut Carlos’s beautiful hair… according to reports. Telly.”_

 

Um…

What.

Did you just… are you… was that… a threat? Are you trying to… put a _hit_ on the barber?

No.

I might be going crazy.

I’m definitely overreacting. Right. Obviously.

But the way you said that…

Nope. Calm down, Carlos. You just got a haircut. A haircut. Millions of haircuts happen every day (probably, check the stats on that one). The voice on the radio doesn't really care. He’s not really angry about it. He’s not really trying to incite anger against the barber you paid for his professional grooming services. That’s insane. You must have taken one too many whiffs of poison fumes before you found your gas mask.

Because, if he did do that… that would be really shitty of him.

Right?

I mean, it would be completely ridiculous of him to think he has some sort of authority over what I should or shouldn't do with my hair, right? And it would be completely unreasonable for him to suggest that the barber - the barber that I _paid_ to cut my hair - was guilty of some sort of crime for complying and carrying out his work as requested, right? And it’s absolutely insane to think that he has some sort of real (or possibly surreal) influence over the community’s opinions and actions as a whole right?

Because if any of that _did_ happen, I’d be pissed. Honestly. Thoroughly. Pissed.

Pissed, Cecil.

It’s my goddamn hair. I’m not your ‘Perfect Carlos’ or this town’s ‘Perfect Carlos’ or _anyone’s_ ‘Perfect Carlos’. You can’t just stare at me when I’m stopped at a red light or talk about me like I’m not standing right next to you or worship me like I’m some sort of _thing_ to be worshiped. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of this town.

I’m glad I cut my hair. Hopefully it was unforgivable. Hopefully it was such a despicable thing to do that everyone will hate me now. I feel like that’d be easier to stomach than… whatever the hell this has been.

I need air.

Fresh air.

Air that has never, at any point, been poisoned by a book.

I can’t hear the rest of this show. Dinner break. Yeah. Now seems like a good time for dinner break.

Maybe this will be a good time to take my dinner break for the rest of the week.

I think I need to get my news from a different voice, for a while.

I don’t want to hear how the saga of ‘Perfect Carlos’ ends.

I exit the lab. Your voice is gone. I take a deep breath. Run my hands across my hair. My short hair. My _short_ hair.

I like it better this way.

 

_“If you don’t hear from me again, it has truly been a pleasure._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. And… goodbye.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, scooting away from the fluff and a bit closer to angst. I promise it won't always be like this. Again, thank you SO MUCH for reading, and for your feedback! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale or its characters. I merely do this as a way of preventing my head from exploding with an overload of feels.


	4. He was still absolutely perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode four: "PTA Meeting"

_“ ...and smelled of lavender chewing gum. ”_

I stop chewing.

How did-

Cinnamon.

It's cinnamon gum, Carlos, calm the fuck down.

The radio didn’t _know_ you’re chewing gum right now. Old Woman Josie just smelled lavender chewing gum last night… for some reason. Though I don’t really understand why lavender chewing gum smells inherently different from lavender… anything else. Do they even make lavender chewing gum?

They probably do in Night Vale.

I start chewing again. Chewing my _cinnamon_ gum that no one noticed or smelled or talked about on the radio.

Now I’ve overused the words ‘chewing gum’. They don’t sound like words anymore.

Chewing gum.

_Chew-ing gummmm._

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Focus.

(How many times have I had to tell myself that since I got here? I don’t remember having focus issues before Night Vale…)

A butterfly darts past my line of vision. I look up.

There are butterflies _everywhere ._

Science.

Ornithoptera victoriae. Victoria’s Birdwing. There’s an infestation. It looks like they came from the sand wastes. Never mind the fact that they’re only found in Oceania. There are hundreds of them, all over town.

One particularly large specimen flits around my head for a few moments. I hold out my finger, trying not to scare it away - even though these butterflies do _not_ scare easily. It lands on my nose instead. You little shit.

But I’m grinning, because the second the butterfly makes contact with my skin, it turns pink. A soft, happy sort of pink, tracing up the colored part of the wing and even mixing into the black in some sort of tie-dye pattern. The wing is too close to my eye; I get dizzy trying to look at it. I shake my head gently, trying to get it to fly away. It stays put. I laugh at that: an entire fucking lab to explore and the little guy has decided that my honker of a nose is the place to be.

When I laugh, the pink gets brighter. It glows a little. The pattern swirls.

Mood-sensing butterflies.

_Science!_

Only in Night Vale.

I try to make myself feel something else. From the moment we figured out what was going on here, every butterfly that’s touched me has turned bright pink. Happiness. When Monica first suggested they were responding to our emotions, I got so excited the poor butterfly started vibrating. But how am I supposed to feel anything else when every inch of my lab is covered with fucking _mood ring butterflies ?_

City Council brought the infestation to our attention just a few hours ago. Before that, we were all furiously trying to deal with the Pteranodon situation. And then the leaflet showed up in the women’s bathroom. Apparently, it’s our job to figure out where the butterflies came from, and return them as quickly as possible. The butterflies don’t have the Council’s permission to access and replicate citizens’ emotions. They didn’t get the proper permit.

I don’t think they understand.

There are _color-changing butterflies_ all over town, and they’re very friendly.

This is the _opposite_ of a problem.

Everyone else got sick of having to gently swat butterflies off of their notebooks and laptops. They left about an hour ago, hoping to make some progress with the Pteranodon issue. I offered to stay and monitor the butterflies.

I insisted.

A female flies past my desk, and the male on my nose immediately chases after her, probably encouraged by the unbridled excitement I’ve given him by proxy. The pink slowly fades into his natural yellow-green as he gets further away from me.

‘He was still absolutely perfect,’

I guess I should have seen that coming.

I haven’t seen him since my haircut. My ‘betrayal’ of a haircut. I haven’t seen much of anyone, besides my research team. The town meeting was the first time I had really gone out in public since I decided to take a break from all things Night Vale. Obviously that didn’t last, but the few days of peace and quiet were still nice. I made sure I wasn’t in the lab during Cecil’s broadcast. I felt… guilty about that, for some reason. And no matter where I went, I could still hear the radio. Never clearly enough to hear what he was saying, but clearly enough that I always knew _someone_ was tuning in nearby. I doubt there’s anyone who doesn’t listen to Cecil every evening. I wonder if he could tell he had one less listener than usual...

But I’m back to listening again. My haircut is still ‘tragic’, apparently, but at least he’s calmed down.

I’m still perfect.

So it wasn’t just the hair.

That’s…

I don’t even know.

It wasn’t even Cecil this time, it was Old Woman Josie. She’s the one who said it, Cecil just reported it. He just agreed. I don’t know why that feels different, but it does. I like Josie. She reminds me of my grandmother - the good one, not the awful one. Having _her_ say I’m perfect feels less like frighteningly delusional hero-worship and more like hearing Abuela Rosa chatter away in Spanish about how smart I am and how I’m going to be the most successful scientist in the world if that’s what I want to do.

A butterfly lands on my hand. It turns a warm sort of peach color. I quickly realize ‘warm’ is a literal term, as I feel its body temperature increase slightly when its wings brush across my arm. The color gets redder, and the temperature increases.

It’s… _blushing ._

Oh fuck, that means _I’m_ blushing too.

I try to encourage it to fly away from my hand. I haven’t seen any examples of fluctuation in body temperature before; I don’t know if it could be dangerous for the poor girl. She finally takes my hints, wings flapping a little too fast as she darts in a quick circle around my head.

“I know how you feel,” I say quietly, not caring that the butterflies can hear me, but not wanting the Sheriff’s Secret Police to have any _more_ record of me talking to myself.

It’s taking every ounce of self control to keep myself seated. The second the rest of the team left, I almost gave in. I almost leaped out of this spinny-chair, jumping up and down and rolling around on the floor, dancing with the butterflies. Because it’s exciting. It’s finally exciting again. It’s not some life-threatening force that needs to be stopped, something bizarre and horrific and somehow completely unnoticeable to anyone outside of Night Vale.

It’s a lab full of butterflies. Butterflies that turn bright, beautiful colors when I touch them. This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. Night Vale isn’t a horror story today, with Hooded Figures and portals to different eras and a horde of people unhealthily obsessed with me and my hair.

It’s a friendly desert community. With butterflies, and science - so much exciting science that I don’t know what to do with myself - and Old Woman Josie saying things that make me feel smart. And I _am_ smart. I’m going to figure out what’s going on with these butterflies. I’ll figure out what’s happening, and I’ll write it up as a very scientific report, and I’ll give to Cecil. So he can tell everyone else. So they’ll know, so they’ll understand how _wonderful_ their town is right now. And so they’ll start complimenting me on something that deserves compliments, for a change. I think I could handle that. That’s what I’m going to do.

That’s what I’m going to do… soon.

But for now, I’m going to calmly stand up, and dance with these butterflies.

For science.

_“We are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that?_

_Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.”_

 

   

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed some more excited, science dork Carlos this time around. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and for all of your lovely feedback! It's wonderful to hear from you!


	5. The moon's weird though, right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode five: "The Shape in Grove Park"

_“It’s there, and there, and then suddenly, it’s not!”_

 

Well that was the wrong moment to take a sip of water.

I’m choking.

My shoulders shake with the strange combination of laughter and coughs that desperately try to keep the water from reaching my lungs. I glance around the lab. No one noticed. How did they not notice? Weren’t they listening?

 

_“If not, what is it watching instead? Is there something more interesting than us? Hey, watch us, moon!”_

 

Luckily, there’s no water to choke on this time. I press a hand to my mouth to try and stifle the sudden burst of giggles that gurgle through my throat.

Cecil.

What the _fuck_ are you doing?

Keep it together, Carlos. You have science to do.

‘Hey, watch us, moon!’

I’m clenching my hands into fists to try and keep myself under control. I have to bite my lip to stay quiet. Everything inside me is shaking with the laughter that I won’t let out. Because I’m a scientist. I have science to be doing. I can’t be laughing at the voice on the radio-

 

_“This has been today’s Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.”_

 

Has it?

_Has it?!_

The laughter erupts from me like a giant tidal wave. I hunch over my desk, smacking my forehead on my microscope. I manage to let out a small vocal acknowledgement of pain through the rippling guffaws spilling out of my mouth.

Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner?

 _That’s_ what that was?

Cecil, you were having an existential crisis about the moon _in the middle of your radio show_.

Tears.

There are tears trickling down my face. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard. My stomach hurts. I press my hands against my abdomen as if that could do something to ease the unbearable tension in my muscles. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. I try moving one of my hands to my mouth instead, try smothering my face with my open palm and splayed out fingers like I can smush all of the laughter back inside where it belongs.

But I feel wetness on my fingertips, and I become massively self-aware of the fact that there are tears streaming down my face.

And that just makes me laugh harder.

You are a radio professional.

What are you _doing_?

I mean, I’ve heard you get a little off-topic to express a personal opinion (thank god the word ‘editorial’ sounds so formal, right?) here and there… but this… this is…

Oh my god, can you laugh so hard you make yourself sick?

The moon.

But… I mean… the moon _is_ weird, I guess.

And all alone in that radio studio, maybe… maybe you’re really not sure if there’s anyone else out here. Maybe you _did_ just imagine all of it.

Holy fuck, your existential crisis is contagious.

I’ve swallowed the worst of the laughter now. Now I’m just sore, and kind of sleepy. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my labcoat. Oh god, I just laughed so hard I was practically _weeping_ , right in the middle of the lab. I take a cautious glance around.

They’re all staring.

Of course they are.

But…

Come on, guys, you  _didn't_  think that was funny? Am I the only one?

That’s… that’s a little disappointing.

Okay, fine. If Cecil’s moon ramblings aren't supposed to be funny, if that was really what the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner is like, I guess I’ll just get back to work.

I look over my desk. There are a few stray tears puddled next to the microscope. I wipe them away quickly, like I’m afraid someone will see them. Like there’s anyone in this lab or the Sheriff’s Secret Police who  _doesn't_  already know what was going on. But apart from that, I didn't disrupt my work too much. I carefully pick up the next slide, containing a small sample of the rock I found in the pavement of Route 800. I don’t know why I picked it up in the first place, but now I’m glad I did. Because I have no idea what it is. It’s a soft, sky blue, like cheap sidewalk chalk. But I can’t find a single property of the rock that matches any existing rock classifications. I’m not even sure it’s organic matter, at this point. Maybe I’m thinking too narrowly about this. Maybe it’s not a rock at all. Who knows, in this town. It could be the bones of an ancient alien species, and not a single citizen would bat an eyelash. They’d probably just say alien bones are highly sought-after for… baby toys. Or candy. They'd probably try to eat it.

 

_“And now a continuation of our previous investigation into whether I am literally the only person in the world, speaking to myself in a fit of madness caused by my inability to admit the tragedy of my own existence.”_

 

Oh fuck.

I bite my tongue, hard.

My shoulders are shaking again. But I think I managed to conceal it pretty well this time. The laughter is fighting me, fighting with everything it has - which of course, is just everything _I_ have.

Cecil, what’s going on over there? Are you okay?

Are you always like this?

Do you always think a little too hard about your own existence, and watch the boundaries of what you thought you know crumble into nothingness? Do you always think a little too hard about the moon?

Shit, I could run to the radio station right now. I feel a tingle in my feet just thinking about it. Because this voice, the one that’s flowing through the lab more like music than like speech, this voice is… charming. Delightful. This voice is something I’d like to listen to, through all the existential crises and ‘Science’ corners and whatever else was said while I was laughing so hard I couldn't hear anymore. This is a Cecil I’d like to sit with for a while, listening quietly while he rambles on and on about the frailty of our reality and how the sky doesn't make any sense, or how the pattern on his tie reflects the tragedy of human nature and Christmas trees. I’ll listen to whatever he calls ‘Science’ and try not to laugh.

Oh, science.

Maybe I could…

Hm.

If, _if_ the ‘Science Corner’ is something that’s going to happen again… maybe I could… offer to help him with that. Give him some sort of science that’s a bit more… scientific than whatever happened today. I could talk to him about science, and listen to him talk about… whatever mush is jumbling around his brain that day. That sounds…

That sounds nice.

Because this Cecil isn't some dark force, lording over the town and holding up me and my hair on some sort of pedestal in a way that I’m not equipped to handle. This Cecil is…

He’s a dork.

I understand dorks. Hell, I have a lifetime of personal experience on that front.

You’d listen to me talk about science for a while, wouldn't you Cecil? I think you would. And I’d listen to you talk about the moon, and how you need an intern to bring you coffee just to feel like you aren't alone in the universe. That sounds like… fun. Doesn't that sound like fun?

I’m still a little sore. All over. My body isn't used to laughing like that. I wouldn't mind taking a nap right now. I need some time to recover. Maybe I shouldn't listen to you talk. You might not like me bursting out laughing every other sentence. You might not have intended for any of this to be funny. But I swear, it’s not funny because I’m not taking you seriously. It’s funny because it’s so serious. You spoke with so much conviction. I could hear the spark in your eyes. I know that sound. I get the same way. I was laughing because I get it. I didn't know you were like that too. You always seem so put together, so serious.

But you’re just a dork.

Like me.

I should get back to work. This rock isn't going to identify itself. But… who knows… maybe when I finally figure out what the fuck it is… maybe I’ll let you know. I could stop by the radio station, tell you about my discovery, ask if that’s something you might want for the ‘Science Corner’.

If you’d be interested in something like that.

I don’t know.

You probably wouldn't.

But regardless, it’s still kind of nice to know. To know your secret.

You big dork.

 

_“This is Cecil, generally, speaking to you, metaphorically, for Night Vale Community Radio. And I would like to say, in the most nebulous terms possible, and with no real-world implications or insinuations of objective meaning:_

_Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say that Shape in Grove Park is one of my absolute favorite episodes. And I was SO EXCITED about writing this one. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> (Also, I apologize for the slight delay in uploading this one, but I was still emotionally unstable after the new episode release last night. Seriously guys, how amazing was that episode?!?)
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading, and for all of your lovely comments! I promise I'll start replying to them individually once I get the chance. I love hearing from you, and you're saying such lovely things. Thank you, a thousand times. You guys are the best.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this as a way of saying 'thank-you' to the creators for making such a beautiful, beautiful series for all of us to enjoy.


	6. Desert Bluffs can't do anything right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode six: "The Drawbridge"

_"That’s where Steve Carlsberg belongs. God, what a jerk!”_

Holy crap.

Seriously?

Cecil, this is a _public radio show ._

Did you really just use it to complain about some guy you don’t like?

I mean, I know you’ve complained about people before, but that was different. I’ve seen the Apache Tracker wandering around the post office, with that god-awful headdress that looks like it came from a cheap Halloween store, just like you said. Those complaints are deserved. That guy is an _asshole_.

But this is…

What did he even _do ?_

An “anonymous” letter about the drawbridge disaster, and something about hubcaps?

Are you really supposed to replace hubcaps?

I don’t think I’ve _ever_ replaced my hubcaps.

I’d better not let Cecil know that. He might set something on fire.

Well, knowing Cecil, he’d probably come up with some excuse about how it’s okay that _I_ don’t replace my hubcaps. It’s just everyone else. Because I can do no wrong. Even if I get a ‘vile’ haircut, it’s the barber’s fault, not mine.

But this Steve guy… what the fuck?

I try to remember if I’ve met Steve at any point. Carlsberg… Carlsburg…? Probably ‘b _e_ rg’. Something about the way he said it. I don’t think I remember him. But there have been so many new faces, so many names heard on the radio and in person, everything has blurred together. I’ve only been here for three months; I can’t be expected to remember every citizen on cue. Not everyone is as instantly memorable as Cecil. Or the Hooded Figures. Though I’m not sure the Hooded Figures count as ‘citizens’ in the first place.

Steve Carlsberg.

This doesn’t seem fair, Cecil.

The drawbridge situation is fucking ridiculous. You can’t deny that.

They are using town funds to build a drawbridge in the desert using _furniture upholstery_ . You can’t be too surprised that there are a few dissenting voices in the town. And I know it’s _your_ radio show, and you have the right to express your personal opinions… but I thought you were good about organizing them somewhat professionally in the form of ‘station editorials’, at least when the opinions could be considered controversial. That wasn’t an editorial. That was just… complaining. Like complaining about an annoying coworker, or a loud upstairs neighbor. I suppose that’s not completely outlandish material for a radio show that can pretty laid-back at times.

But…

Cecil, you were so _vehement_ about it. Like you two are sworn enemies or something. What the fuck did he do to you?

In a town like Night Vale, maybe I don’t want to know.

I certainly don’t _need_ to know.

I need to get back to this sand issue.

I sigh, low and exasperated. Because I hate this sand.

“Fuck you!”

Fuck _you,_ sand! Fuck you up your pebble-strewn ass!

I skim through the report on my desk once again, though I practically have it memorized by now. The sand in the elementary school playground started making small, incomprehensible sounds last Tuesday. No one thought to report it, because they assumed it was just coming out of summer hibernation (and there’s nothing strange about that, of course). But over the past few days, the sounds have become louder, and clearer. The sand started talking.

Of course it did.

So the sand started talking, and people _still_ didn’t really think anything of it (why would they?), until yesterday, when the language started becoming… colorful. Then, and only then, did it become problematic. Because of the children, and their small, innocent ears.

“Suck it, bitch!”

I lean over my desk, my face inches away from the petri dish full of tiny grains and pebbles. “I am going to find a way to _murder you_ ,” I whisper, grateful that the rest of the research team have already donned noise-canceling headphones. I know it’s futile; we’ve already tried dozens of methods of stopping the sound. Crushing, grinding, melting, drowning, burying, poisoning… nothing works. The tension in the lab has risen so much over the past few hours that it’s practically a palpable layer in the air. The sand is demoralizing. Its tiny, genderless voice has worn us all down. I glance over my shoulder. Every one of my colleagues is hunched over their work spaces, anger plain on their faces, doing their research in a distinctly bitter fashion. No one has spoken since lunch.

Except the sand.

The sand has spoken _a lot_ since lunch.

I probably shouldn’t be judging anything I hear on the radio right now. In a mood like this, _anything_ could set me off. A light breeze could probably make me explode in a string of expletives - I’ve learned some interesting new ones from this fucking sand. My nerves are too raw to respond to anything rationally. I’m probably overreacting.

 " _Apparently, the Sheriff’s Secret Police agree with me about old Steve Carlsberg, dear listeners. We just received a report from a reliable witness that two days ago, Steve was whisked into the back of a windowless van, only to reappear earlier this morning, wearing thick head bandages and eating styrofoam shaped like an ice cream cone. ”_

Breathe.

I said breathe, goddamn you.

Cecil…

_What the fucking fuck?!_

Did you… could you have… was that… _what the fuck was that?!_

Calm down, Carlos. You’re in a bad mood. You know that. It’s this sand. This sand is pissing you off. The radio doesn’t matter right now. It’s not Cecil. It’s not Cecil’s fault. Cecil did _not_ just complain about someone only to conveniently find out afterward that he was kidnapped by some nefarious police force and potentially lobotomized. Cecil can’t do that. He’s just a radio host. People listen to him like they listen to any other radio program. He doesn’t have any sort of _control_ over people’s emotions and actions.

The fact that he fawns over your hair, and then everyone else in town fawns over your hair - that’s a coincidence.

The fact that he calls you “perfect”, and then random citizens start calling you “perfect” when they see you on the street - that’s a coincidence.

The fact that he complains about Steve Carlsberg for no reason, and then… _something_ happens to him, something seemingly horrible - that’s a… coincidence.

It has to be.

Cecil just said it himself: this happened to Steve a couple of days ago. I’ve never heard him complain about Steve before today. See? They can’t be related. Cecil has no influence over this town, and his choice to bad-mouth a random citizen for seemingly no reason had _nothing_ to do with any horrific or menacing events that happened to said random citizen.

He doesn’t have that kind of power.

He can’t. It’s impossible. I’m worrying about nothing.

Was I worrying?

I… I suppose I was. It’s a little… troublesome, to think someone could have that kind of influence over the town. Especially someone with such _potent_ opinions about me. My hand instinctively goes up to my hair. It has felt like it’s been growing… a little faster than usual.

Nope.

I’m crazy. I’m finally going crazy.

It’s just the sand. It’s pissed me off so much that it’s made me a paranoid weirdo. There’s nothing sinister going on with Cecil’s radio show. He has no influence or power beyond any other normal citizen. My hair is growing at the same rate it _always_ grows. It feels a little longer because it _is_ a little longer. The haircut was a month and a half ago, that’s plenty of time to get back the first hints of curls in the short buzz cut. There’s nothing unusual going on here.

“You’re a piece of shit!”

Well, _almost_ nothing.

I finally give in, reaching for the headphones hanging on the hook next to my station. It’s probably better this way. I don’t really want to hear the rest of the show if I’m going to be this persnickety about it. We’ll figure out how to silence this horrible, _horrible_ sand and send it back to its rightful place in the pits of hell, and things will be fine again.

“Asswipe!”

I wanna go home.

" _And with that, I leave you alone with your thoughts, folks._

_Stay tuned next for ‘Zydeco: Note by Note’, a special two-hour verbal description of what Zydeco music sounds like._

_Buenas Noches, Night vale. Goodnight.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you SO MUCH for reading! I can't believe how much of a response this fic has gotten so far. I look forward to many more chapters with you all!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I only do this because Carlos is adorable and this is my way of expressing fictional affection.


	7. The Tourism Board is offering puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode seven: "History Week"

_“...as a reward for information on this case. Or, even if you don’t have information, the city asks that you come get a puppy or two anyway.”_

 

Hah.

I laugh at that, the reaction taking a few extra seconds to travel from my brain to my mouth.

I immediately regret my decision.

Even though it was a very gentle laugh, it sends jolts of tight pressure through my already aching sinuses. The laugh quickly morphs into a pitiful whimper. I’m glad no one was around to hear it.

No one except the various organizations that have bugged my apartment, anyway.

But they probably stopped listening a few hours ago. God knows nothing interesting has been going on here today. I’ve only gotten off of the couch three times, and I haven’t formed a single sentence yet, coherent or otherwise.

I knew I was getting sick. I've been able to tell for days.

And I didn't do anything about it.

Of course I didn't.

There just isn't time anymore. The lab is too busy. We _barely_ make progress on one massive discovery, and suddenly there’s a new crisis shoving itself through the door. I’m there seven days a week (provided said week is scheduled correctly and there actually _are_ seven days), putting in truly ridiculous amounts of hours. I haven’t had a ‘weekend’ in over a month. Eight hours of sleep seems like a far-off dream, so distant that it would make more sense that I’m mis-remembering it entirely. I've never gotten eight hours of sleep in the same night, I've just slept for more than eight hours total in my lifetime. Yeah. That seems more reasonable.

Did I take too much cold medicine?

The bottle is all the way on the other end of the coffee table. A truly impossible distance. I’d have to pull myself into nearly a sitting position.

Nope. Not happening.

I suppose I should be grateful that I found that bottle in the first place, buried deep in an inside pocket of a long-neglected suitcase in the back of my closet. I don’t know why I packed it in the first place. At the time, I assumed things like cold medicine would be readily available in Night Vale.

I assumed a lot of things about Night Vale back then.

Hm. Simpler times.

I can still remember the look on the nurse’s face yesterday. The crease between his thin eyebrows as he looked me over. I sneezed, just barely managing to smother my face in the elbow of my labcoat in time. I remember the list of questions he asked me. Things about spiders and leaves and cereal that he seemed to think were usual ways of checking for symptoms. When I tried to explain that it was just a cold, and all I wanted was some cough syrup, he cocked his head to the side. He didn't know what I meant. He had to call for the doctor.

 _He didn't know what I meant_.

Of course he didn't.

Of course there aren't colds in Night Vale. I don’t know why I expected it to be otherwise. A simple bought of blood poisoning from a sacrifice gone awry? ‘Sure, we fix six of those a day!’ Waking up to find all of your bones have been replaced with umbrellas? ‘We’ll write you a prescription for Antiumbrelliotics!’ Slowly losing your ability to tell the difference between cacti and cats throughout the day? ‘That’s been going around a lot of workplaces lately!’

But a cold?

A _cooooold_?!

You’re on your own, pal.

I can’t believe I couldn't go in to the lab today. It’s the first time I've stayed home since I first got here. It feels strange. I’m not used to seeing my apartment in the daytime. Has it always been this bright? I feel like the walls are practically glowing. And they’re beige. I don’t remember them being beige. I thought they were a sort of murky tan color. Maybe I need to replace my light bulbs when this is all over.

My phone buzzes, somewhere beneath the mountain of pillows and blankets and Carlos that’s amassed on the tiny living room sofa. I dig around, awkwardly bending my arm behind myself as I pointedly refuse to actually move my body. I finally find it, slowly sinking its way between the cushions.

A text from Monica, an update on what I’m missing at the lab.

Focusing on the tiny screen hurts my stuffy head.

It’s a picture. A picture of… meat? Yeah, that’s definitely meat. What am I looking at, Monica? There’s a caption under the photo. It just says… “Tires?”

Well.

I don’t know, Monica.

Maybe tires.

 

_“Then, finally, one group of explorers all looked at each other, shrugged, and plopped down their stuff.”_

 

I laugh again.

I regret it again.

I don’t even know why that was funny. It probably wasn't. My brain has been more-than-a-little fuzzy all day. Even though I've slept for at least twelve hours, all told, I still feel like I've pulled three all-nighters in a row. Without coffee.

I haven’t listened to your show outside of the lab before, Cecil. It’s a strange thought. I've listened to it almost everyday for almost three and a half months. This is the first time I've been somewhere else. I didn't even realize that my apartment doesn't have a radio to suddenly jolt to life when you start speaking, like at the lab. But when the time neared for your show to start… I wanted to hear it. I never really thought about _wanting_ to hear your show before. It’s always just been part of the day. Like eating. Or breathing. It just… happens. I didn’t really think about it.

So when I pulled out my laptop, I wasn't nearly as surprised as I should have been to find that the NVCR website was already loaded, a live stream of your show playing at a much greater volume than my crappy speakers are capable of producing. I didn't even know there was a live stream. I’m not even sure I ever hooked up any form of WiFi in this apartment.

But it doesn't really matter right now. I wanted to listen to your show. And now I am.

And I like it.

I really do, Cecil. I've never had the chance to just lie down and listen to what you're saying, without any confusing and potentially life-threatening science underneath my nose. My nose is completely out of commission today. But my ears work fine. And I've really enjoyed listening to you. I wish I could listen to you more often, really listen, like I am now. Your voice is so soothing. It’s doing more to ease the pressure in my sinuses than the maximum dosage of that cold medicine ever did.

Another text from Monica.

Another picture of meat. Different meat.

The caption: “Definitely tires.”

Good job, team. Tires.

 

_“Seriously listeners, what’s next? Removing the line: ‘Praise the Beams, praise, O ye knowing Beams that guide our lives, our hearts, our souls; praise all highest to ye, all-powerful Beams’ from the Pledge of Allegiance?”_

 

This is gonna hurt.

It’s just a string of weak chuckles - the most I can muster in my weakened state - but it feels like a stampede in my skull. I need food. But food is difficult. And far away.

You’re funny, Cecil.

Either that or I’m high on this cold medicine.

It might be both.

But I really like listening to you anyway. I like your voice. It’s soft, and gentle, and… warm. Can a voice be warm? I feel like it’s warm. I hope that’s your voice, anyway. It might be a fever.

I’m going to say it’s your voice. Your warm, soft, smooth, pretty voice. I like it. I bury my face in my comforter, and it feels like your voice is tucking me in. I hum quietly. Because it feels nice. Does your voice always do this? I've never noticed it before. I hope it does.

Another text from Monica. I begrudgingly bury my face all the way inside my comforter, refusing to lift it out into the cold apartment (the apartment is kept at seventy-seven degrees; this really might be a fever).

Another picture of meat. Bigger. Possibly in midair.

The caption: “NOT TIRES.”

I type a response. It takes several minutes, since my trembling fingers keep insisting on hitting all the buttons I don’t want them to hit. “Good to know.” It takes me three tries to hit ‘send’.

I think I’m falling asleep. I can still hear Cecil, as clearly as though he were sitting right next to me. I poke the top of my head out from under the blanket, just to make sure he isn't. I don’t think I’d mind if he was. Except I’d probably sneeze on him. I wouldn't like that.

But you’re not there, Cecil.

I knew you wouldn't be.

You’re still on the radio, where you always are.

But maybe… not where you always have to be.

 

_“We passed the time from one end of twelve to the other without stopping once. Well done, us! Good job, people who experience time! Time experiencers, good job. And from this moment in history, the one that’s happening right now?_

_Goodnight.”_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you enough for the amazing response this fic has gotten so far. I didn't know what to expect, yet here it is already creeping its way toward almost 1,000 hits! I LOVE hearing from you all, both here and on my personal tumblr blog (my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com) if that's more your style. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy poor Sick Brain Carlos!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this because I wish I was cool enough to come up with something like Night Vale, or its characters.


	8. The situation is even worse than he imagined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode eight: The Lights in Radon Canyon

_“He, again, did not mention weekend plans.”_

 

Hm.

That’s-

Well, that’s just…

Hm.

That sounded… normal.

Really, _really_ normal.

I mean, apart from the fact that it implied someone cares about what I’m doing this weekend.

But Cecil, that sounded… _normal_.

You weren't freaking out about my hair. You weren't insisting that I’m some perfect creature that fell from heaven just to grace your town with my scientific genius. You weren't berating anyone for interacting with me incorrectly.

You just… wanted to know if I have plans for dinner.

Like you…

This can’t be right.

Like you _cared_ about what I’m doing for dinner.

Like you… wanted me to mention dinner plans… with you?

Did I hit my head recently?

Did you hit _your_ head recently, Cecil?

Because that - that thing you just said right now - sounded so… simple. It wasn't dark, or mysterious, or a little bit terrifying. It was simple. It was kind of… cute. You were disappointed that I didn't ask you-

No.

No, that’s only one way of looking at this. I know that. I don’t have any fucking clue what’s going on in your brain, Cecil. Your strange, confusing brain. Because I know what I _want_ to say about this. I want to say that I know exactly what your intentions were. I want to say that it sounded like… you have some sort of… _crush_. On me.

Which does not compute.

But it’s the safer option. Because the other option is that you wanted to know what my dinner or weekend plans are because you’re some sort of horrific stalker, and knowing my movements in advance will help free up your schedule.

Endearing crush, or terrifying stalker.

Apparently, there’s a pretty fine line separating the two. And you yo-yo back and forth across that line, Cecil. Frequently, and with gusto.

Though this time… I don’t know. That was the farthest you've crossed onto the ‘endearing crush’ plane so far. I mean, you - you sounded so sad. I was there to ask you a specific question, an important question that could have quite a bit to do with the safety of your town. Was I supposed to casually mention the fact that my only plan for the weekend is spending the entirety of it in the lab, as usual? Dragging myself home after dark, passing out on the couch while some dangerous and shadowy reality TV program plays quietly in the background, even though I didn't turn on the cable box, sweating through the night because I don’t want to pay for air conditioning… That’s what it is, Cecil. That’s what it _always_ is. Regardless of your intentions (as vague and potentially menacing as they might be), I don’t want to tell you that. God, just imagine that conversation.

‘Oohhhh Carlos, perfect, beautiful Carlos, what are you doing with your perfect magnificent wonderful self tonight?’

‘Well, I’m going to leave my pants in the kitchen sink and eat a three-day-old donut in my bathtub because that’s the only thing I've cleaned in the last three months. Care to join me?’

I glance at the calendar in the bottom corner of my laptop screen. Oh, fuck. That donut is _four_ days old now. How have I still not gone grocery shopping? There aren't even any malevolent forces occupying the Ralph’s this week; this time it’s entirely my own fault. Bon appetit, jackass.

I check my hand, bringing it up to my face to get a good look at my fingernails. I don’t see anything. Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The bottle clearly says “Invisible Nail Polish”.

We can’t do anything about the Radon Canyon situation right now. We’re waiting for reports before heading over after dinner. We’re hoping the lights will be easier to survey at night. So until then, we’re all… kind of doing our own thing. Catching up on whatever needed some extra work. And for me, that meant finally crossing some items off of my List. The List I've been keeping since I got here, four months ago. The document is open on my laptop, cursor blinking patiently by the next entry. These aren't dangerous anomalies, or potentially life-altering scientific discoveries in the making. These are just… things. Things I've found in the town that I don’t understand. Everyone else seems to understand them, but I don’t. They’re not important enough to deal with on a normal day. But right now, while we’re trying to kill a few hours before sunset, they’re perfect.

Invisible Nail Polish.

Not _clear_ nail polish. _Invisible_ nail polish.

I found it in a display by the register at the Fuel’n’Go store a few weeks ago. The bottles all looked completely empty, even though they each bore an un-tampered plastic seal. They were heavy, even though they were clearly made out of thin, lightweight glass. They felt like there was actually nail polish inside. I couldn't help myself. I bought six seemingly identical bottles. I remember being nervous when I put them on the counter. I've never bought nail polish before. The bottles are covered in glitter and bear the logo of a very suggestive pair of winking eyes. The man at the register was big and hairy and wearing a flannel shirt like a lumberjack. I was afraid he might make a snarky comment.

He said he thought the color would go nice with my eyes.

I shouldn't have been surprised by that. But I was. Maybe people are nicer here than they are back home. Or maybe they’re just used to having bigger problems to worry about than a man buying large quantities of nail polish.

I look at my nails again. I don’t know how long it takes nail polish to dry. I painted my left hand five minutes and thirty-two seconds ago. That’s probably okay, right? I hold my index finger a few inches away from my face. As gingerly as possible, I run the pad of my right thumb over the surface.

It’s definitely not wet.

But there’s definitely a coat of… _something_ on there. And it’s not clear. My nail looks as dull and cracked as ever. When I turn it sideways and touch my finger to it, I can see that there’s a small gap between my nail and the finger touching it. I feel like I’m touching my nail, but the gap is clearly visible. I’m touching something on top of my nail. My heart flutters a little. Because science. There is definitely a layer of invisible polish on my fingernail.

Now if I could just figure out why anyone would want to wear it.

Cecil would be able to tell me. I bet he knows everything about nail polish, invisible or otherwise. He’d probably tell me that this is too low-quality and I deserve something more lavish, or point out that this particular shade of invisible doesn't match my labcoat.

And then I wouldn't ask him out on a date, and he’d be disappointed.

Or, he’d casually mention that he sometimes watches me sleep from inside my fridge.

It’s a toss-up.

I never quite know what I’m going to get with you, Cecil. But when you’re charming, like you were today… you’re _so_ charming. I can still see the smile you gave me when I nervously made my way into the radio station. Cecil, I saw your smile, and I literally turned around to see who you were smiling at, because it couldn't have been me. No one has ever smiled at me like that. But there was no one else there. The intern who led me to you had already left. You were smiling at me. I… I've never seen a smile like that before.

And it wasn't just that. It was your voice, too. On the radio your voice is like music, deep and rich and smooth like silk. But when you stumbled over the words “Good morning, Carlos”, you were breathless. Almost squeaky. It…

God, it was the cutest thing I've ever seen.

How can you do that? How can you yo-yo that line with such skill? Encountering you is like a weird game of Russian Roulette. You might be an adorable pile of goo, but there’s always the chance you’ll try to steal my skin to put on a Carlos shrine in your bedroom. I never know with you. I don’t like not knowing. You’re one giant mystery, and I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know why you wanted me to mention my plans for dinner. I don’t know if you have a crush, or an unhealthy obsession. And I don’t know how to deal with you because of that.

Noise.

Oh, the team is packing up. I guess the sun set when no one was paying attention.

The sun shouldn't have set now. It’s not the right time.

That’s a different problem for a different day.

I run my finger across my painted nails. They feel nice, cool and smooth and somehow… fancy. Even though they look as worn and abused as ever.

Hopefully we’ll figure out what’s going on with the lights. Hopefully this mystery will be easy to deal with. We’ll figure it out, write it up, and I’ll call Cecil so he can inform everyone else. Maybe I’ll ask him about the appeal of Invisible Nail Polish while I’m at it.

When I do that, Cecil, I don’t know if you’ll be the adorable, smiling fool, or the cool, sinister radio professional.

But I know which one I want you to be.

 

_“Yes, this is life as it should be, Night Vale. Stay tuned next for a special live broadcast of the Night Vale Symphony Orchestra performing Eugene O’Neill’s classic play: ‘The Iceman Cometh’._

_It is a good night, listeners. Goodnight.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for your response to this fic! I can't believe it's already reached over 1,000 hits! I was so excited that I doodled up a little [Carlos](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/88242195996) over at my tumblr blog to celebrate!
> 
> Writing this fic has been a wonderful time for me so far, and I'm very excited to keep working through the rest of the series. Again, you guys are the best. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this because my love for this story sometimes reaches dangerous levels and needs to be dealt with.


	9. I am not one to stand aside harshly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode nine: "PYRAMID"

_“...and say that a man deserves the punishment that comes to him, but I am also not sorry to see Telly in this state, given his crime. In any case, if your cactus is in need of a haircut, try Telly, out wandering the sand wastes.”_

 

Fuck.

_Fuck._

My legs feel like jello. Jello that’s been standing out in the desert sun for as long as I have. I feel something shiver in my knees. I have to sit down.

Fuck.

I can’t-

_Fuck._

I collapse none-too-gracefully onto the dry earth. My labcoat is already covered in a layer of light brown dust; a large patch of dirt on my ass is hardly a sacrifice at this point.

My legs still feel like jello.

But I gave in. I sat down. Shouldn't they stop feeling so weak now?

My knees are shaking.

Fucking hell.

Cecil…

What have you done?

I shake my head. I know it won’t actually clear away my thoughts, but I can’t convince myself to stop. The world’s gone all wobbly around the edges.

I knew you liked to yo-yo across that line, Cecil.

But this…

The line is gone. You've gone so far past it that it’s just a little dot on the horizon now. The ‘Adorable Crush’ plane is so far away that you’d need to get in a helicopter just to see it again. You’re standing so far in the ‘Terrifying Stalker’ plane that you’re practically drowning in it.

Drowning and helicopters. This metaphor is all over the place. Not my best.

But it’s all I can come up with at the moment. My brain is numb.

There’s a brief flicker in the air just above my feet. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose until the top of the frame is pressing firmly into my forehead.

The trans-dimensional fish.

That’s the reason why I’m here in the first place.

Focus.

I've been out here for three hours, sweating in the heat that I would complain about even in the middle of summer. Now it’s well into autumn and it’s barely cooled down a single degree. I’m almost tempted to take off my labcoat, to use it as a blanket of sorts to sit on and enjoy the slight physical improvement of just wearing my t-shirt for once.

But I’m a scientist. I’m here doing science. I need my labcoat.

The flicker by my shoes gets a little… bigger. Bigger? Yes, that’s a good word for it. I jot a quick note down on my clipboard. The flicker looks strangely metallic, yet… translucent. It’s flickering constantly now, almost rippling.

Water.

Of course.

Sometimes the City Council _does_ know what they’re talking about.

Now of course they can’t make it too easy for us. After months of being handed inexplicable crises and being told ‘here fix this for us’, this time our job is to make the problem _worse_. Because this is the Waterfront. The dry, barren, desert Waterfront. The Waterfront without a fucking drop of water. And now, all of a sudden, there have been reports of fish, flickering in and out of the air at random intervals like they’re happily splashing in a goddamn lake. So - naturally - we need to figure out how to make the trans-dimensional shifts _permanent_. Because then there’d be water at the Waterfront. We don’t know what kind of water it is. We don’t know what kind of fish these are (none of them have been in our reality long enough to be identified). We don’t know _what dimension they are from_.

But we’re supposed to get them stuck here.

Because that’s _good_ for the town.

God I hate this fucking town sometimes.

They could be invincible piranhas swimming in pure poison from a parallel universe where water can multiply itself to infinity and drown the entire earth.

But hey, at least there’ll be water at the Waterfront.

I've been here for three hours. _Three hours_. The fish has only flashed through the air twice so far. But it’s my shift. My turn to stare into the nothingness and hope a fish-like something manifests itself long enough to take notes. The rest of the team is back at the lab. The air-conditioned lab. With the comfortable chairs and stools and floor that isn’t made of sandy dirt. Just one more hour to go. Then it’s David’s shift. I can do this.

Cecil.

Cecil’s voice is pouring into me through the cheap ear buds plugged into the portable radio in my breast pocket. I pointedly stopped paying attention a few minutes ago; I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about now.

And I don’t want to.

Don’t think about it.

Think about the fish, wavering through the patch of reality above my shoes. I can almost see what color its scales are. Soon I might see if it’ll fall to the ground or continue hovering a few inches above the dirt when it fully manifests. Think about the fish. Don’t think about... it. Don’t think about-

Don’t think about the fact that a community radio host became so irrationally pissed off when you decided to get your own goddamn hair cut (to make yourself more comfortable) that he practically told his listeners to do bad things to the barber you paid to cut your hair and now some really vague-yet-probably-terrible things have happened to the barber who was a very nice man and oh my fucking fuck _what is the problem with this fucking town?_

What is the problem with Cecil?

What’s his fucking problem?

What… what did he do?

He didn't… He can’t have that much power.

People just listen to him. Everyone listens to his show, I know that. Everyone trusts him because he’s the Voice of Night Vale. He doesn't have any sort of authority over the citizens. He can’t influence their thoughts more than any regular public figure who occasionally voices opinions. Opinions about me. Opinions about who I am and what I do.

He was so upset about the haircut. So upset that he convinced… someone… some _thing_ … to fuck up Telly bad enough that he’s… what was it? Giving a haircut to a cactus?

Cecil, how did you do that?

Something is pressing against my chest. Not something real, something intangible. It’s spreading down my chest and into my stomach. It’s making everything heavy and tight and cold.

It’s fear.

I’m afraid.

Cecil… I’m afraid of you.

Because you shouldn't be able to do this. I don’t even know what it is that you've done, but… it’s not the kind of thing any person should be able to do. You shouldn't be able to hate someone enough that it ends up hurting them. Physically hurting them. You’re alright with the fact that this happened, you said so yourself. Telly didn't do anything wrong, Cecil. What gave you the right?

And that’s not all of it. Steve Carlsberg, Telly… that might not be a comfortable amount of data to make a strong hypothesis… but it’s still more than there should be. That’s two people you've hated on the radio who ended up hurt off of the radio. It’s only two people, but that’s still two more than there should be. Who knows if you can do this to… anyone. Anyone who happens to piss you off.

I’m… lucky.

I’m _lucky_ that Cecil decided my haircut was Telly’s fault. Because it wasn't. It was mine. I chose to do it, I wanted to do it, I’m basically the one who did it. If Cecil wasn't so damn obsessed with me, if Cecil didn't think I’m so fucking perfect and so fucking incapable of doing anything wrong, he’d realize that. He’d realize that _I’m_ the one he should hate for this.

If he did realize that… what would happen to me?

If I find a way to piss off Cecil enough… what would he say about me on the radio? What would that do to the town? What would that do to me?

I look down at my clipboard. There’s a light, jagged pencil line chasing itself in a spiral at the top right corner. How did that-?

I’m holding the pencil over the paper.

And my hand is shaking.

My hands are shaking.

Cecil, I’m so afraid that it’s literally making my hands shake.

When I look up, there’s a fish looking back up at me. A small, silver fish, with green eyes. It’s floating in a barely-visible cocoon of sparkling water. It looks at me calmly, like it’s just as curious about me as I am about it. As I am _supposed_ to be about it. As I really should be, when I think about it. A fish has just magically appeared suspended six inches in the air in the middle of a desert. I should be freaking the fuck out. I guess a little more than four months in a town like Night Vale really fucks over your sense of perspective. Night Vale can fuck you over in a lot of ways.

Focus.

I jot down some more notes. My hand is shaking a little less.

“You’re not going to kill someone because I like short hair, are you, Fish?”

An air bubble blubs out of its mouth, popping when it hits the top of its self-contained fishbowl.

“That’s what I thought.”

 

_“Stay tuned now for an hour of dead air, with the occasional hiss and crackle. Speaking of the nighttime, I truly hope you have a good one, Night Vale._

_Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I want to thank you all so much for reading! I've been hearing wonderful things from people and I can't express how happy I am that you're enjoying it!
> 
> Special note: I wrote a tie-in fic for this story that technically takes place within this fic's canon. Since it's about an original radio broadcast and not an official Night Vale episode, I had to write it as a separate fic instead of a bonus chapter in this one. Check out ["I am Broadcasting for Personal Reasons"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1801399) if you want shameless Cecilos fluff.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this as a way of trying to convince myself I'm actively contributing to such a wonderful fandom.


	10. This has gotten out of hand, ladies and gentlemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode ten: "Feral Dogs"

_“We simply cannot live in fear of our safety because of wild dogs. Allow me a brief editorial here, if you would…”_

 

Of course.

Of course we can’t live in fear.

I mean, why would we?

Why would we fear for our safety because of wild dogs? The idea is ludicrous.

Why would we be afraid of a pack of possibly rabid dogs with highly developed artistic abilities who have already kidnapped, maimed, or killed several people?

Why would we be afraid of that, Cecil?

Hah.

Although…

If I’m really honest…

I’m _not_ afraid of the pack of feral dogs.

Because let’s face it, I've seen way worse by this point.

No. If I’m uncomfortable with anything in this situation… it’s the City Council.

Because… there’s a pack of feral dogs roaming the town. And they’re very, very dangerous. You’d think they’d be crashing through our ceiling, demanding us to solve this problem for them as soon as possible or they’ll confiscate our feet.

But no.

That would make too much sense.

Instead, they've _forbidden_ us from looking into it.

We've been given _dozens_ of usable samples from concerned citizens: tufts of fur, vials of unfortunately-frothy saliva, even a block of concrete with several fully-formed paw-print indentations (I decided not to ask how that one was collected). We have enough research material to maybe - just maybe - _actually figure something out_ for a change.

But _no_.

They took it all away.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police sent several incredibly well-trained sparrows to confiscate every single dog-related item in our lab (once again, I decided it was best not to ask how two sparrows carried a four-by-six foot slab of concrete between them). We followed them outside only to find that they had dropped several boxes by the dumpster. With a note from the Mayor’s office.

‘There are no feral dogs. Do not use science on the feral dogs. The feral dogs that do not exist. Your new job is green tea. Use science on the green tea. Figure out what is wrong with the green tea.’

Boxes full of tea bags, loose leaf, gallon jugs of iced tea with various flavors.

That was six hours ago.

We’ve been looking into the tea ever since.

There is nothing wrong with the green tea.

_There is nothing fucking wrong with the fucking green tea._

Not even by my ‘insane’, non-Night Valean standards.

They did this on purpose.

To keep us busy. So we can’t look into the dogs. They gave us perfectly normal tea and told us to find the problem. ‘Here, fix this unbroken thing so you won’t get in our way.’

We all know it. There have been enough awkward glances around the lab, enough clearing of our throats as we shuffle over to the coffee pot, enough sentences starting with “Maybe it’s… ah…”

On the upside, at least some of it is pretty tasty.

Someone gasps.

I flail around. Did someone _actually_ find a problem?

Oh fuck, please don’t be the loose-leaf pi lo chun, I've had six cups of that.

It’s Monica.

But she’s not looking at any of the tea scattered around her.

She’s looking at me.

She’s… pointing at me. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

I don’t get it.

My lack of understanding is clear enough on my face that she knows to clarify. She twirls her finger around, touches the back of her head, points at me again.

The back of my head?

What’s-?

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

I missed one.

No one else is looking. I don’t know why Monica’s gasp didn't attract their attention, but I’m thankful for it. I sheepishly reach one hand to the back of my head, trailing my fingers across my hair until I feel something circular and smooth. I peel it away carefully, feeling it tug against my scalp in protest.

A dot.

I thought I got this one already.

Dammit, Cecil. Why do you keep sticking dots on my head every time you see me? Where do you even get these things? Is there some Night Vale Dot custom that I’m unaware-

Wait.

Dots.

Dot… Day? Dot Day? Is that a thing? I vaguely remember hearing about it during a Community Calendar at some point. A reminder about Dot Day. Put dots on things you-

Oh.

I look down at the red dot stuck to my finger. The one that matches the four other red dots Cecil has stuck on my head over the past week. It was never… intentional. He always seemed like he was surprised by it, even though he was the one _doing_ it. The first time was when I stopped by the radio station to ask if he knew whether all the praying mantises in Night Vale were Muslim or if it was just the ones in Old Town. After another smile that made me wonder if he was confusing me with someone more smile-worthy, he… scooted. Scooted closer to me. I was terrified. The line, Cecil. I didn't know which side you were going to yo-yo to in that moment. I didn't know if you were going to try to kiss me, or try to eat my eyeballs. But… that look on your face… It was so…

Shy.

You looked so nervous, so flustered. I wanted to move away because I didn't know what the fuck you were trying to do, but your face was so gentle I was afraid that if I took even one step away from you, you’d break. You looked so earnest that it seemed criminal to disappoint you. Like a kitten.

And then, in a blur of movement, you stuck a dot on my head.

And muttered a quick ‘good-bye’ before practically running away.

I didn't know what to do. There was a red dot on my head, and a flustered radio host disappearing into the break room. I figured since no one was injured, I shouldn't worry.

And then it happened again, when you ran into me in the canned goods aisle at the Ralph’s. You were even more nervous this time. Even more… adorable.

And then again, on your way out of the bowling alley. More confident this time.

And then again, when you helped me crawl out of a Subway that I wrongly assumed would let me out as easily as it let me in. Confident, and slower.

And now today, when we both happened to be standing at the same stoplight on our lunch breaks. Confident, smiling, gentle.

I never knew what was going on. I figured I didn't need to. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing anyone here has done to me, so… why get nervous over it, right?

Dot Day.

Five dots on my head. I’m surprised they stuck so well to my hair.

My hair.

Oh. Oh fuck.

You haven’t been putting dots on my head. You've been putting dots in my _hair_.

Red dots.

On… what you… ah. I can’t remember. It’s been too long.

Monica.

Thankfully, she’s still looking at me.

I don’t know any of the correct signs for ‘Does Red Dot mean hate or love?’ so I try to communicate that thought through a particularly complicated facial expression.

She understands. She’s so good at reading faces like that. Which is convenient for me, but it makes me feel a little incompetent too. I’m learning necessary signs as quickly as I can, but not enough to really talk to her the way I’d like to.

But for now it doesn't matter, because she understands.

She smiles. She nods.

Love.

Red dots on what you love.

And Cecil…

Cecil has been putting them in my hair.

My _short_ hair.

My short hair that had been so traumatically (for him) cut.

My short hair that had caused a veritable clusterfuck of problems for him, and subsequently a few innocent barbers and barber shop patrons.

It’s still short. It’s still barely long enough to start twisting into the first hints of curls.

And Cecil…

Cecil has covered it in red dots.

Oh, _fuck_.

Well, you've yo-yoed across the line again.

Is ‘yo-yoed’ a word? Look into that.

Cecil.

So this…

This means it’s done now, doesn't it?

You’re done. Maybe you know you crossed a line. Maybe you know how upset I had gotten, how frightened I had gotten. Maybe you’re acknowledging that you went overboard. Maybe you realized that you don’t actually care if I want to cut my hair when it gets too long. Maybe you’re saying that the length of my hair doesn't have a damn thing to do with whether or not I’m perfect, or beautiful, or any of the other words you throw around me so much. Maybe you’re saying you’re sorry for reacting like that, implying that my hair was more important than I am. You looked so shy with that first dot, Cecil. I've never seen you look like that. You’re so confident, you’re so smooth and sonorous and all other sorts of words I’m not eloquent enough to think of but are not even in the same universe as ‘shy’. Maybe you've gone back over the line for the last time.

Oh god, Carlos, pull yourself together.

These are all assumptions. Assuming _anything_ is downright dangerous in Night Vale. Assuming something about _Cecil_ is just fucking stupid.

It’s just a dot.

Just a red dot.

Just a red dot in my hair.

Just a red dot that Cecil put in my hair.

Just a red dot that Cecil put in my hair to signify that it’s something he loves.

Something tightens in my chest. It gets worse when I look down at the dot.

Oh my god.

I’m fucked.

 

_“The sky tonight is a soft, quivering green. The wind is calm, but prepared. Get your sleep, Night Vale. And don’t forget to dream._

_Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all so much for reading! I really enjoy writing this fic, and it's great to hear that you are enjoying it too! Looking forward to many more chapters!  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this because my love for Night Vale is probably borderline-unhealthy at this point and this makes me feel more normal for some reason.


	11. I apologize, listeners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode eleven: "Wheat and Wheat By-Products"

_“We at Night Vale Community Radio are experiencing the following technical problems: the need for air, eye movement, and gooey stuff inside. Please… stand by…”_

 

Oh my god.

Please, no.

_Please._

They've spread.

They’re at the radio station now.

With my entire research team.

And Cecil.

Cecil…

Oh for _fuck’s sake_ , Carlos, this is _not_ the time!

There’s another thrashing against the door.

I try to curl myself further into the corner. I know it’s impossible. I've tried at least twenty times in the past five minutes. I’m as far in the corner as I can be, taking up as little space as possible, curled in on myself as tightly as my body will allow.

Another thrashing.

A howl.

I’m already trying to protect myself from a lab full of demonic, poisonous snakes… did they really need to be able to _howl_ too? Isn't their mere existence enough? Wasn't it enough for them to suddenly fly out of the break room fifteen minutes ago and come at me like I’m the only sustenance they've ever seen?

I thought my team was safe.

That was my consolation. My _one_ consolation. They were supposed to be safe. They weren't here when it happened. They were at the radio station. They made me stay behind because the results about the wheat and wheat by-products were urgent. Urgent enough that they needed to be reported to the town as quickly as possible. Quickly enough that they couldn't allow for any distractions. They couldn't allow Cecil to be distracted for even one second.

So I wasn't allowed to go with them.

I thought they were safe.

It was just the test samples, the ones we have here. It shouldn't have spread anywhere else.

But now this… this… _whatever the fuck this is_ … it’s at the station.

That means… Oh god…

It’s everywhere.

Everywhere in town.

Everyone is in danger.

My team, Cecil, whatever Intern has survived this long (doubtfully much longer), Old Woman Josie, the kids I saw playing in Mission Grove Park, the _kids_ … they’re all in danger.

Any of them could be dying right now.

Another thrashing.

The bolts squeak in the hinges of the door.

Fuck.

Don’t open.

 _Don’t open_.

I don’t know what to do.

I locked myself in the decontamination shower because it’s air-tight. There aren't windows. It’s a tiny, windowless room made of thick steel with heavy deadbolt locks. Certainly not like any decontamination shower I've ever seen before, but now is hardly the time for questions. It’s probably a normal thing in Night Vale. Right now, this particular town anomaly is the only thing keeping me alive.

Then again, it’s an even bigger town anomaly that’s threatening my life in the first place.

A thrashing.

A howl.

A screw shoots out of the hinge, ricocheting wildly off of the close-set walls, only stopping when it smacks across my cheek and falls dully to the tile floor.

This could be it.

Something wet lands on my knee.

Am I bleeding?

No, the damp spot on my jeans doesn't have a color.

I’m crying.

I didn't even notice.

I try to curl up tighter. My eyes screw shut. I bring my hands up to cover my ears, protecting them against the pounding and the hissing from outside the door. It only amplifies the pathetic whimpers coming out of my own mouth.

I never thought I’d die so completely alone.

I rake my fingers through the tiny bits of curls above my ears. For the first time, I wish I’d left my hair long. I could thread my fingers through the rats nests and hold on for dear life - _literally_.

If I get out of here alive, I’ll have to tell Cecil I’m going to let my hair grow out again.

He’ll give me one of those smiles.

He might even jump up and down a bit.

Oh fuck, am I seriously _laughing_ right now?

Through the distant echo of screams, and the demonic wailing breaking down my only protective barrier, and the wet sniffles of my own sobs, I’m actually laughing. Laughing at the image of Cecil dancing with joy at the prospect of having my disastrous hair back in his life.

Thank you for that, Cecil.

Thank you for making me laugh.

Another screw flies out of its place.

A hinge is knocked loose.

The door tilts, ever-so-slightly.

Everything is so loud-

Silence.

Wait…

No.

That can’t be right.

There’s no howling. No pounding. No distant screams.

What’s that?

A faint… whoosh?

Whoosh? That’s a thing, right?

There’s definitely a whoosh sound.

It’s whooshing… away.

It’s getting quieter.

It’s… gone.

It’s… _over_.

No.

It’s too early to say that.

But I can’t stay in here forever.

My hands shake so much that I almost can’t undo the various locks holding the door in place. When the last one finally snaps free, the door gives a massive, horrific creaking.

Holy shit.

_Holy shit!_

I duck just in time. The door crashes in, landing an inch away from where my head just was.

Not my smoothest recovery, I’ll say that much.

There’s silence again.

No, not silence.

How did I not notice earlier?

The radio.

It’s still playing.

I can hear Cecil speaking, like he were right in front of me. He’s been speaking this whole time. I’m so used to hearing him that I didn't even register his voice as sound while I tried to determine if those monsters were still here. I wasn't listening for him.

Everything is destroyed. Tables, shelves, equipment, chairs, stools, tiles… it’s all a pile of rubble now. One item completely indistinguishable from the next.

The windows aren't broken. That’s odd.

The door is open.

They must have left.

The wheat demons must have left through the front door.

That was polite of them.

I walk over to survey the damage. I can hear screams in the distance again. But they’re… different. They aren't the screams of attack and defense anymore. They sound like… discovery. I’m not the only one surveying damage right now. People must be finding things they don’t like.

I turn around to look through a different window.

A red hand print is streaked across the outside of the glass. There’s something - motionless and broken, in a pile on the ground outside beneath the windowsill. Covered in red.

The lab is destroyed, but I still reach for the garbage can as I feel the sudden rise of everything I've eaten in the past twenty-four hours. I fall to my knees, too weak to fight the need to vomit into the debris-filled can between my legs.

At least I've stopped crying.

Everything comes back to me slowly: motor functions, coherent thought, senses. The taste of bile in my mouth is something I could do without, but it means I’m still conscious.

It means I’m still alive.

I’m still alive.

 

_“I asked him where he got his shirt. It fit him so well…”_

 

Cecil.

This can’t be real.

You almost just _died_ and now you’re talking about... my _shirt_?

It was a t-shirt, Cecil.

It had a pun on it.

A bad one.

A bad science pun.

And that’s what you’re thinking about right now.

I’m less surprised that I've started laughing again. I laugh as I wipe my mouth. I laugh as I shakily get to my feet. I laugh as I look at the destruction surrounding me.

Because I’m alive.

And Cecil apparently likes bad science puns.

If that doesn't deserve some happiness, I don’t know what does.

 

_“I don’t know if he listens to me sometimes.”_

 

I don’t.

I don’t listen to you sometimes.

Because I’m an idiot.

A fucking idiot.

People have died. Homes have been destroyed. We’ll never eat wheat again. I can hear someone wailing across the street.

And Cecil…

You’re talking about my shirt.

I get it.

People know that things aren't alright. They have the proof strewn across every inch of their vision. It’s filling their ears. They can’t escape it.

But if they listen to the radio…

They’ll hear you, talking about my shirt. Talking about things that don’t matter. Talking about things that are trivial and unimportant and normal (I’ll look into the fact that I just called something in Night Vale ‘ _normal_ ’ at a later date), like everything is okay.

And that’s comforting.

Everyone in town is panicking right now.

But not you, Cecil.

You’re as calm as ever.

And it’s for us.

You’re taking care of us. You’re looking out for us. You’re giving us something comforting and familiar and trivial so we can cling to what we know.

I’m going to start listening to you. _Really_ listening. Because what you say is important, even when it’s meaningless. I’m not going to take that for granted anymore.

I promise.

 

_“I hope you will let my dulcet voice, and our humble community station, into your ears and hearts until your final, wheat-loving breath. Dear listeners, stay tuned next for a live broadcast of a man, locked in a recording booth, silently staring at the microphone with intense suspicion. And, as always, since always, and for always…_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you thank you THANK YOU for reading!  
> I'm sorry it took so long to get this one uploaded. I had a busy week and was also very distracted by being utterly devastated by the events of Old Oak Doors Part B. I had to write a couple of fics to help deal with those feels (one of them has a happy ending, check it out if you're in need of some feels-help). Hopefully I'll be able to update as often as I'd like to again. Though, let's be honest, I'm still emotionally compromised from that damn episode. I make no promises.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I do this because it's a good way to reminisce about simpler fictional times.


	12. You are home, but you are also somewhere far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twelve: "The Candidate"

_“...from whence you will never find home again.”_

Nope.

No, thank-you.

Not interested.

Fuck that.

I don’t need some sort of dream broadcast talking to me about home. Telling me I’m home, but not really. Telling me that my real home is somewhere else. Somewhere that’s _not_ here. Somewhere that’s nothing _at all_ like here. Somewhere… far away.

I already know that.

I already fucking know that.

I already know this isn’t my home, okay? I get it. That point has been making itself _abundantly_ clear for the past - quick flip through my mental calendar - the past…

Oh.

Almost six months.

Six months.

Almost.

Half a year.

_Almost ._

How… how can that be real?

I’ve been told often enough that time isn’t real here; I guess I never believed it. I’ve been told it doesn’t work right. That seemed impossible. Suddenly it makes perfect sense. Because there’s no way it’s been almost half a year. Half a year in this town. With the City Council and the Sheriff’s Secret Police and the Angels (or… the not-Angels, any government agents who happen to be listening to my thoughts… not-Angels) and the rituals and the horrors and the lights above the Arby’s that I don’t understand…

Almost half a year.

I glance around my apartment. I’m up here on a quick break to collect some samples for further experiments. When the City Council sent in reports that the air in town was “wrong” today, I assumed it was bullshit, another cover-up to distract us from something important. The fact that the reports were sent on an ancient, possibly demonic runestone didn’t help their credibility in my book. Luckily, David became fluent in ancient… ancient… I can’t remember the name of the language (flurgen… flargen… exschto-something?), back in college, during his Dungeons and Dragons phase. I decided not to ask follow-up questions. No one else on my team was getting any bullshit vibes from the request to “fix” the town’s air supply, so I kept my mouth shut. It was only when we started getting _other_ reports from random passers-by that I finally convinced myself it was a real problem. Because no fewer than twenty-seven citizens have stopped by the lab to tell us that the air is… wrong.

All of it.

All of the air.

Wrong.

We needed samples from various locations, so I offered to go upstairs to the apartment. Not exactly a wildly different sample base than the lab itself, but I can’t bring myself to get much farther away. Too tired. Too (don’t say ‘lazy’, a scientist is _not_ lazy, that’s the first thing a scientist isn’t)... worn. Too worn.

So here I am, standing in my apartment, holding a test tube and a stopper, trying to find a way to scientifically gather a sample of the air. Waving the tube around and putting in the stopper isn’t good enough. I’m a scientist. I have dignity.

It feels strange to be here during work hours.

It feels strange to be here during-

It feels strange to be here.

Almost half a year, and I still haven’t referred to this apartment as ‘home’. Not once. Because it isn’t. It’s a shelter. It’s a box of walls that happens to hold a bed. And a shower. And a kitchen. And other things that are generally considered necessary for ‘survival’. It’s all for survival. There are still unopened boxes in the tiny hall closet, the one I never use. The things in those boxes are non-essential, so I still haven’t found time to take them out. Pictures. Posters. Ribbons and awards from an embarrassing number of Science Fairs. Framed diplomas. My first labcoat. Neglected, collecting dust. In cardboard boxes, on the floor of the closet I never even think to open, not even now.

This isn’t a home.

There is nothing about this apartment that qualifies it as a home.

I have a sudden urge to fling the closet door open, tear through the boxes, and lock myself in this apartment until every single item is put on careful display. My team will be fine without me. They’ve been fine without me before, they can do it again. They don’t need me.

They don’t need me.

Why…

Why am I here?

My hand stalls on the closet’s doorknob. At some point, I dropped the test tube on the carpet. I can’t make myself open the door.

Because I know what’s in there.

Home.

Or, at least, all the pieces of home I still have with me.

And I don’t think I can bear to see all of that right now. The picture of my parents hugging me at my high school graduation will just remind me that I chose to leave them. Chose to leave, even though they were basically wonderful, and living with them was never a struggle. Chose to go to college across the country, just because the program was “better” by some arbitrary, immaterial definition of the word. Chose to move to a town in the middle of the desert that I don’t think they could find even if they tried. Chose to live a life where I can’t even remember the last time I talked to them.

When was the last time I talked to them?

I let my forehead fall against the closed closet door. It smacks a little harder than I intended, but I don’t really care. I take a deep breath of “wrong” air, but I imagine it’s air from home. My first home. On a really good night, one of the ones where my parents made dinner together. I smile. On their own, they could each make a sufficient, pleasant meal. But together, they made masterpieces. I can smell the beginnings of a three-course feast seeping under the door of my bedroom, wafting up from the kitchen and completely overpowering the scent of whatever chemical warzone I had created at my desk. I can hear the kitchen radio constantly switching between the evening news and the local ‘top 40’ station, and the rapid-fire arguing in an incomprehensible mixture of English and Spanish that inevitably follows - punctuated by a few louder-than-necessary smacks of the rolling pin against the floury countertop. By the time dinner started, as always, the radio would be quietly pouring out the peaceful compromise of smooth jazz.

I miss it.

I miss it so much, so suddenly, so violently - I can’t catch my breath.

How long have I been homesick?

How long have I been here?

I’m sick, and sick not just for my home, but for any home. This isn’t a home. I don’t know how anyone can call Night Vale “home”. Home is where you’re safe. And happy. And don’t have to worry about the entire town’s air suddenly going wrong like it just felt like taking the day off.

Everything was so simple at home. And safe. And easy.

It’s so far away now.

The food, the pointless arguments, the noise of the kitchen, the radio-

_“Sleep heavily, and know that I am here with you now. The past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore.”_

Right on cue.

I have to laugh.

The radio is downstairs, in the lab. So is my laptop. I don’t have my portable radio or my headphones in my pocket. I glance around.

The tv is displaying a bright, clear image of the NVCR logo. The digital readout on the cable box says ‘RADIO’, even though it doesn’t display letters. I haven’t seen the remote in weeks.

Well played, Cecil. Well played.

I should probably wonder how you do it. But to be honest, I don’t really care. Because it’s… it’s entertaining. ‘Oh no, Carlos is trapped somewhere without a radio, whatever will we do?’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll use my magic Radio Powers to send the signal through his toaster!’ ‘Hooray!’

How do you always know, Cecil?

How do you always know what to say?

_“And while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first, and settles into the gentle present. This now? This us? We can cope with that.”_

Cope.

That’s a good word.

Not _enjoy_ , not _love_.

Cope.

Night Vale will probably never feel like home to me.

But I can cope with that.

I’m homesick. I feel like I’m six years old again, at overnight science camp, not knowing what to do without my own bed and my own parents and my own home.

But I can cope with that.

The air is wrong.

I bend down to pick up the test tube. I grab the safety goggles off of my head and slip them on over my glasses. Now, when I wave the tube around and put in the stopper, it feels like science. This isn’t a home. This is a long-term experiment full of scientific discoveries that are far beyond any basic human comprehension.

And I can cope with that.

I’m going to get off of work at a decent time tonight. And I’m going to call my parents. I’ll have to make some decisions about what I should and should not (or perhaps, can and cannot) tell them about my time here.

Interesting weather? Yes. Menacing Glow Cloud? No.

Unusual wildlife? Yes. Five-headed Dragon? No.

Haircut? Yes. Barber being driven insane by local radio host _because_ of haircut… probably not.

It’ll be strange, censoring my life story for my own parents.

But if it means I get to have a piece of home again, I can cope with that.

_“We can do this together, you and I, drowsily, but comfortably. Stay tuned now for our two-hour special: ‘Car Alarms and their Variations’, brought to you commercial-free by Canada Dry._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I sincerely apologize for the amount of time it took to post this. I had a crazy busy couple of weeks, including - wait for it - seeing Welcome to Night Vale Live two weeks ago! I saw the show once before, but it took a seven-hour bus ride to get there, and we had to leave right away to catch a seven-hour bus back. This time they were in my home town so we got to stay afterward and meet everyone! Seriously, still freaking out about it. I got to talk to Joseph and Jefferey about why I love Night Vale so much and why I think it's so important in the scope of modern media. I talked to Joseph second, and I actually uttered the phrase: "As I was just telling Jeffery..." WHAT IS MY LIFE?!? Okay, calming down. Picture highlights can be found on [my blog](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/93220480046).  
> I have a few chapters written in advance, so expect much more frequent updates starting soon! I don't have much more free time, but at least I'll (hopefully) have calmed down about the whole Live Show thing. Hopefully.  
> Thank you guys SO MUCH for reading and your continued support. I love this fic dearly, and I LOVE hearing your response to it. Feel free to talk to me here, or at my blog. I love talking to you guys. Thanks again.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Night Vale, or its characters. I just do this because oh my god I love Night Vale so much I can't handle it sometimes.


	13. This is a story about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode thirteen: "A Story About You"

_This is a story about you, said the voice on the radio. And you were incredulous, because you were expecting a story about someone else._

This is a story about you. You live in Night Vale, but you haven’t always lived in Night Vale. You’re always surprised when you realize just how long you've been here, but you’re never quite sure if it feels too long or too short to be true. You often think about this when you see a calendar, or a clock. You try not to think about the clocks too much. You have your suspicions, but it’s not time to look into that yet. There are so many other things you need to do first.

You are a Scientist. A brilliant, diligent, perfect Scientist. You are sitting in your lab right now, doing very important science, for the betterment of the entire town, no doubt. The last sunlight of the evening spills in from the window next to you - the one with the blinds that are just too high to reach - and the golden light illuminates your skin _perfectly_.

You look up at the radio, the radio that is telling your story. You know looking at the radio won’t give you any answers; you've looked at it hundreds of times since your arrival, and it’s never helped. After all, how could looking at a radio help you understand what you hear from it? You’re not even sure the radio works… not the way a radio is _supposed_ to work, that seems to be certain.

‘This can’t be right,’ you tell yourself. You look down at your hands, wiggling your fingers, trying to make sure that you are awake, not caught in another dream. Dreams are tricky these days - your surroundings have become so strange, so unfamiliar, that even your most fantastic dreams no longer seem strange when held against your waking days in comparison. Your life becomes bizarre, your dreams become mundane, and neither of them change at all. You bend your fingers, one at a time, in a specific pattern. A specific order, a specific bend, a specific view of wrinkles and scars and flaking of dry skin (you really should start using moisturizer). The pattern is simple in your waking hours, but always impossible to remember in your dreams. You go through it again, just to be sure. You wait, glancing around, trying to find any crumbling in your reality.

Everything is quiet.

But nothing happens. You really are awake. And the radio really is telling your story.

You glance around again - your dark, perfect eyes try to take in the entire lab at once. Blood and heat rush to your face. Because everyone can hear this; everyone can always hear the radio. They’re hearing your story. They've just heard that you’re blushing, which only makes it even stronger, makes your face even redder. Your eyes are wide and your face is on fire. You would never believe it, but it looks so… charming.

As your glance around the lab tips from ‘apprehensive’ to ‘panicked’, you notice something strange.

No one else has noticed anything strange.

Everyone is sitting in their own place in the lab, focusing on their own work (except David, but he’s texting his mother to check on her claw surgery recovery, so no one really minds). Everyone looks at their own work. Some of them smile, some of them glance at the radio. Monica laughs, far too loud, but it’s such a happy sound that it’s a welcome interruption. None of them look at you. They are not hearing about you. This is a story about you. They are hearing a story about them. You don’t need to worry about their stories. And they will not worry about yours.

Your story is a familiar one - at least, it is becoming a familiar one. You are dealing with very important science. You are, after all, a very important Scientist. You roll your eyes and glance up at the radio. You don’t like hearing these things about yourself. But the truth is still the truth, whether you enjoy it or not. This is not what’s important right now.

You look back down at your science. It’s spread out all across the table. Hours, days, seemingly weeks of work, clustered and spread at random. But right now you can only focus on what’s directly in front of you. It’s a mouse. Everyone has told you it’s a mouse. Someone told you it was a mouse, right after you found it. He was the first person you asked, but you didn't believe him. He might not be an important Scientist like you, but honestly, even lowly radio presenters know what _mice_ look like. Regardless, you didn’t believe him. So you took the mouse to other people. You asked your colleagues, you asked a member of the Sheriff's Secret Police (who was disguised as a piece of modern art on the campus of Night Vale Community College), you even asked random passers-by on the street. And they all told you “that is a mouse”. Because that’s what it is. It is a mouse. Honestly, this isn’t difficult.

You eventually gave up on the confusion of classification - even though you are still convinced that mice are something else entirely - and you focused on something else instead. Now you are focused on the mouse’s hairs. You find it absolutely fascinating that they are so delicate. You are amazed at how the slightest shifts or movements can make them burst into flame. You are baffled by the fact that trying to pluck one too roughly will make the follicle explode, sometimes with enough force to cause severe damage. No one else thinks about these things, but you do. Everyone else has accepted this fact - no, no one else even had to accept it, it is simply a part of their lives. Everyone else knows ‘yes, this is a mouse, and this is how mice work’, and that’s the end of it. But not you. You want to know, to question, to explore. You are fascinated by the most ordinary things in life. You can’t accept things like mice and their explosive hairs. You have to know. To understand why.

And now you've stopped focusing on your science. You’re focusing on the voice on the radio. But you haven’t let go of the mouse. You realize this, and the realization makes you jerk, just a little too suddenly. The hair held between the tweezers, held between your fingers, goes up in flames. You say a string of quiet words in very fast Spanish. They are words that cannot be said on the radio. Your fingertips are bright red and sore; this is far from the first time you've almost burned them today. You straighten your glasses with your free, mostly-unburned hand. You are going to focus now, and safely collect a usable sample of this hair. So you can finish your science.

You tilt your head, ever-so-slightly. The light of the sunset is deeper now, a dark amber. It hits the line of your jaw, highlighting the rough stubble you've let grow there. You plan to shave as soon as you have a few spare moments, but you really don’t need to. Hair as perfect as yours deserves to grow as long and full as possible.

You glare up at the radio. You’re trying to focus, after all. You find it difficult to focus when your actions are being narrated for you. You also find it difficult to hear yourself described like this.

But this description is the truth. The squareness of your jaw isn't an opinion. The luster of your black curls (finally starting to spring back to life, after their vile absence these past months) isn't an opinion. The deep, rich shade of your eyes isn't an opinion. What people think about these things, those are the opinions. But you confuse those things. For you, one is the same as the other, and none of them are facts. Because you have to know. You have to understand why. You don’t understand what other people see. You don’t understand how other people can see you in a way that’s not the same as how you see yourself. You have to understand _why_.

There is no why. You've searched and tried and thought and struggled, but this time, there is no answer. You can pull out as many mice hairs as you want (though please try to be more careful; you've just burned yourself) and find out why we call these things ‘mice’ when you call them something else. You can tear this town to pieces and put it back together again. But some things still will not have an answer. Your perfection does not have an explanation, or a reason, or a why. And it doesn't need one.

So you should stop looking.

Your time would be better spent looking for the answers that you can find. Like the mice, and their hairs. See? You've finally removed a hair without the tiniest trace of flame. Because you are brilliant. And you are diligent. And you are perfect.

And you are glaring at the radio again.

But you are also smiling. Just a little.

This has been a story about you. You didn't want to hear a story about you. You don’t like hearing about yourself. But you _should_ like to hear about yourself. You make for a more interesting story than you think.

There is science to be done. Very Important Science. And you have trouble focusing on science when the radio talks about you. This is understandable, if a little disappointing. So your story will end - your story on the radio. The radio will play something pleasant, and unimportant, and easy to ignore. You will focus, much better than you are focusing now. The radio will talk about other things, less exciting things. You have to remember, there are people who like to talk about you. They like it very much.

They’d like it even more if you’d listen.

****  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap... I UPDATED! And I genuinely can't believe it myself. I'll probably be checking this chapter for days to make sure it's really here.  
> First of all - as always - thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for reading, and for putting up with my hyper-meta nonsense. Basically, I've always thought that the Story About You was personalized for every citizen in Night Vale, so everyone was genuinely hearing about themselves (because Cecil's radio show can do whatever it wants, and apparently that includes broadcasting countless stories simultaneously). I promise, next chapter we'll be back to regularly scheduled programming.  
> Which brings me to my next point: Though the timeline sure doesn't support my theory, I AM still writing this fic, and I have no intention of dropping it. I've accepted the fact that I clearly can't update as often as I'd like, but trust me, I have plans for even some of the newest episodes already. It may be sporadic, but I'll still be here!  
> Once again, thank you so much. The response I've gotten to this fic has been wonderful. You guys are the best. <3


	14. Have you ever seen a hawk? Of course not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode fourteen: "The Man in the Tan Jacket"

_“No one has._

_This has been our Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.”_

 

Cecil.

You asked me to help you with the Science Corner.

You said you wanted it to be about birds.

I did research, Cecil. About birds. I spent all of my free time for the last week, doing research about birds. I gave you pages and pages of detailed information about predatory birds native to desert areas. There were even diagrams.

I drew _diagrams_ , Cecil.

You just said hawks aren’t real.

That was not _our_ Science Corner.

That was _no one’s_ Science Corner.

If you aren’t planning on reading out all of my notes, word for word, before the end of this broadcast, I’ll go over there and do it myself.

Well… no, I won’t. Of course I won’t.

But I’m definitely not going to ‘help you out’ with the Science Corner again, if this is what you’re going to do.

‘No one has ever seen a hawk.’

This is pointless. What was I doing? Where am I?

Seriously… where am I?

Oh, right.

Lunch.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in the lab’s breakroom before. Well, I probably have, but not with the intent of actually taking a break. I don’t think ‘breakroom’ is really the correct term anyway, no matter what the sign on the door says. ‘Room where none of the _super_ dangerous science is allowed’ would be more accurate. Pretty much every flat surface in here is covered in experiments. There are even a few uncovered beakers that appear to be secured to the fridge with… duct tape. That can’t be safe. There’s food in there. The food might get on the experiments.

The breakroom is usually filled with people. I’d never admit it out loud, but that’s probably the real reason I’m never in here - no matter how many times I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time to take lunch breaks. It’s not I dislike anyone else in the lab, and I don’t think any of them dislike me (well, maybe David, but I did accidentally set his moustache on fire once, so I guess that makes sense). I’m very good at working with all of them. They’re an amazing group of scientists. It’s great to work with them. We’re great at science.

But lunch isn’t science.

It’s not particularly troublesome. It’s only been seven months (fuck, _fuck, seven months_ ). It’s taken longer than that for me to really be friendly with people in an unfamiliar setting, and Night Vale is basically as unfamiliar as any place could ever possibly be. Hell, the last time I thought I remembered the correct protocol to withdraw money from the ATM, I got there and the machine had been replaced with a bear.

Just… a bear.

The last thing I should be worrying about here is that I haven't gotten chummy with my co-workers.

And yet.

But the breakroom is almost empty right now. I checked, before I went in. I pretended I had to go to the bathroom so I could look in the window. Then I waited in there long enough to make it seem like I actually used it. Then I realized the toilets are really fucking loud and they’d be able to hear that I hadn’t flushed. And I felt too guilty to flush an empty toilet and waste all that water, so I washed my hands really, _really_ well, hoping that’d seem like a believable reason to be in there so long without actually using the toilet.

All so I could see if there was anyone in the break room.

Oh my god.

On the bright side, there’s only one other person eating lunch right now.

Monica.

I can do this. I’ve talked to Monica. I’ve talked to her a lot. Not as much as I’d like to, but she’s been teaching me sign language and I’m not technically a bad learner. I actually learn pretty fast, but telling my dumb hands what they’re supposed to do doesn’t mean they’ll do it.

Monica must see me open the door, because she’s grinning and waving at me before I’m even inside.

Yeah, I can do this. Hopefully.

Lunch.

I wave back. I’m mentally running through how to ask if I can sit with her, but she kicks out the chair across the table from her and nods toward it before I can do anything.

That was easy.

I sit in the mostly-functional plastic chair, trying to ignore the chemical burns and the uneven legs that wobble just enough to be annoying. I’m not used to eating lunch at a lunch-adjacent time, so I’m not very hungry. But food is necessary, so I dig in the pocket of my labcoat to find whatever the hell I crammed in there before running out the door this morning. It turns out to be a granola bar and four green grapes.

When did I buy grapes?

Monica is in the process of unpacking an incredibly well-organized lunch box, the kind with separate containers that all match, and a thermos that looks like it actually keeps things hot (instead of vaguely warm, like mine does). There’s a light layer of snow on her labcoat, at least a dozen dead leaves tangled in her hair, and her jeans are soaked through up to her knees. She must have been out with the team that’s investigating the reports of “sudden and intense seasonal climate change” at the High School stadium. There had already been two blizzards and a mild typhoon reported before we even got in this morning.

Monica’s lunch is assembled. I can’t tell what any of it is. Probably the latest Night Vale food craze; Monica’s very up to date on trends. She looks up at me before eating.

Oh, that’s right!

I practiced all night. I looked up videos on youtube and watched myself in the mirror. I can do this. I set down my ‘lunch’ and very carefully ask her how her new tropical fish are doing, making sure each sign is perfect.

She stares at me.

She keeps staring.

Why-

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh my god.

Of course.

_Of course_ they don’t use regular American Sign Language in Night Vale.

Why the fuck did I think they would?

She’s still staring. She’s smiling though, which is nice. She wouldn’t make fun of me for something like this. As apologetically as possible, I pull out the notepad and pencil (laws be damned) in my pocket and write out my question for her, sliding it across the table.

As soon as she reads it, she laughs, big and loud.

Wow. I must have been really fucking wrong.

She answers slowly, using signs she’s already taught me. Except now I’m wondering how many of them are standard, and how many are Night Valian. In the middle of a sentence, she stops. She looks up at the radio, mouth open in shock. Then, she bursts out laughing again.

You must have said something funny, Cecil.

Because even though Monica’s hearing was confiscated by the City Council as a penalty for too many unpaid parking tickets, she can still hear your show.

I’m becoming increasingly convinced that it’s literally impossible to _not_ hear your show.

But I wasn’t paying attention, so I don’t know what she thought was so funny. For all I know, you could have been yodeling.

Hell, I wouldn’t even be surprised.

But, wait… hadn’t you just been talking about the guy with the coat that no one can remember seeing? Because… that’s not funny. That’s not funny at all. Some guy who can come up to you at any time and say or do anything to you and the second it’s over, you forget the entire fucking thing?

Yeah, that’s _exactly_ the kind of paranoia I _didn’t_ need. Thanks for that, Cecil.

Monica’s finally got her laughing under control. She picks up one of the tupperwares and takes off the lid. She tilts it toward me carefully, so she can show me what’s inside without it spilling. She’s smiling like she’s proud of showing off whatever’s inside.

It’s… empty.

I mean… yes. That’s completely empty. A completely empty tupperware.

Am I missing something?

She sets it down carefully, right in the middle of the table.

Oh no. Oh, please, no. This was going well. We were talking. It was fine. Don’t offer me food that I don’t understand. I can’t handle that. Oh fuck, she’s probably going to be polite and let me have the first bite. Stop being nice to me, Monica, I don’t know how to explain that I don’t understand your food! Shit. How can I get out of this? Say I’m allergic? What if that’s not food at all? Fuck, it could be anything here. Shit. Shit shit shit. If this goes bad, I won’t be able to get up the nerve to talk to her again for days. This was working. I thought we had worked up from ‘begrudging co-worker’ to ‘might possibly be a viable friend in the future’. Not anymore, not after this-

She tears open a bag of baby carrots. She gives one to me, and takes one for herself.

Okay. For now. Okay for now. My hand is barely shaking. She probably can’t even tell.

She dips her baby carrot into the empty tupperware, steadying the container with her free hand and scooping the carrot like it’s going through something thick. And then she nods to me.

My turn.

I dip my carrot into the container, assuming it’s going to burst into flames, or worse. But... there’s something in there. Completely invisible- wait. No. There’s a little bit of shimmer. A glittery haze.

I can’t tell if Haze or Invisible would taste better with carrot.

When it seems like I’ve scooped a decent amount of… it… onto the carrot, I lift it up, not sure if it’ll maybe… drip off? Is it liquid? Is it messy?

But Monica lifts hers up to me. Almost like…

Ha.

A toast. I lift up my glittery carrot and touch it to hers, and, wow. I’m actually smiling.

“Cheers,” I say, hoping that’s the correct term in Night Vale.

Alright, I’m eating something that might not even be food. I know Monica wouldn’t poison me, but still…

Oh.

Oh that’s… that’s really good. _Really_ good. It tastes kind of like… smoked salmon?

I look up at Monica. Apparently the goodness of the food has translated to my face, because she laughs, just barely covering her mouth with her hand before bits of carrot can spray across the table.

I laugh too.

Okay.

I can do this.

This is okay.

This is good.

Lunch.

 

_“Thank you again for listening, listeners. I look forward to another fine year, a new year, well-spent with all of you out there. Stay tuned next for two commercial-free hours of E Sharp._

_Good Night, Night Vale. Be alert, and write down everything you cannot comprehend._

_Until next time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, guess who's officially one of those people who takes a year to update their fic?   
> But I'm still here, I promise! Slowly but surely, this fic WILL keep updating.  
> I know this chapter is a little less story-related than the others have been, but I wanted to take a bit of time to focus on Carlos's life outside of the main plot events (and his relationship with Cecil). So I hope you enjoy a bit of Carlos introspection, and I sincerely hope it's a satisfactory update after such a ridiculously long wait.  
> I've heard such wonderful things from my readers, even after all this time, so as always, thank you, THANK YOU for reading this fic, and being so amazing. <3


	15. Street Cleaning Day is terrifying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode fifteen: "Street Cleaning Day"

_ “...and we should all perhaps fall to our knees, letting out moans and rubbing our forearms absently.” _

Yeah, Cecil. I got it. Terror, panic, blah blah blah. Heard you the first time.

Jeez.

I’ll start running for my life in… one minute.

Maybe two.

I’m just  _ very busy  _ right now, Cecil. 

So if you could maybe tone down the ‘We’re all gonna die’ talk, that’d be great. I still don’t know how to control the volume on the lab radio, and your panic is interrupting my science. 

Very distracting. 

I mean, the earthquakes and the screams and the thin red mist filling the air are already making it hard enough to concentrate. I certainly don’t need any more white noise from the radio.

Hm.

It’s interesting how much a few months in a place like Night Vale can alter your perspective.

It’s hard to believe that just one life-threatening crisis ago, I was vomiting in the decontamination shower. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced.

Now it’s just… such an  _ inconvenience _ . 

I’m so busy right now, can’t those Street Cleaners wait  _ one fucking minute _ before coming for the lab? 

Rude. 

_ Rude _ . 

The constant tremors in the ground are manageable, at least. Annoying, but not horrible. This specimen seems physically stable enough, I don’t think rattling around my desk will do it any real damage. But this fucking mist. This  _ fucking mist _ . Not only is it  _ very difficult  _ to do any detailed research with a goddamn gas mask over your face, but why did it have to be  _ red  _ mist? It’s staining everything. Everything. My labcoat is already a nice, blush-like pink, and it’s only been misting for a few minutes. It’ll be blood red by dinner time. 

And then there’s Cecil, being all ‘Go hide so you don’t die’ and panicking and stuff.

Right when I’m in the middle of science.

Come on, Cecil. Chill.

The specimen oozes, all over my notebook. Awesome. Just what I needed. Something  _ else  _ going wrong. Great. Cool. Thanks. Perfect.

I only started calling it ‘The Specimen’ because I already have three subjects called ‘The Thing’, and I thought it was time for some variety. God knows I can’t call it anything more specific at this point. Specimen… works. It’s definitely a specimen. Of some sort. I’m sure. ‘Thing’ feels more accurate, but it is getting old. 

The specimen showed up on the windowsill next to my area of the lab, right before everything started getting all apocalyptic. Everyone else ran away when Cecil first mentioned Street Cleaners, but I was already pretty engrossed in whatever the hell is going on with this thing. Specimen. Not thing. It’s… grey. And… big? Or possibly small. I don’t know what it is, so I don’t know if it’s a large or small example of itself. It’s roughly the size of a loaf of bread (don’t think about bread, don’t think about bread and how much you miss eating bread and how you can’t eat bread anymore because demons). Roughly the size of… a cat. A  _ regular  _ cat, not a Night Vale cat. So it’s grey, and cat-sized, and somehow gooey and metallic simultaneously. It feels solid, and smooth, and smells like pennies, but if you smush it hard enough, it sculpts like silly putty. 

But more importantly, it occasionally… leaks. 

From nowhere in particular. There aren’t any openings or pores or anything that suggests liquid could escape. 

Yet every few minutes, it’ll suddenly be sitting in a puddle of something.

Something that just might be a type of engine fuel. 

I’m still working on that. The stupid mist keeps getting into my samples and ruining my readings.

But if it is… if the specimen is randomly leaking out buckets and buckets of fuel… this could be a big deal. It’s already leaked out way more than it could possibly contain, which means it must be renewing it somehow. This could be a renewable source of fuel. 

Then again, knowing Night Vale, it could be something they use to wash babies.

Okay, Cecil’s been quieter for a few minutes now. Maybe things have calmed down. I mean, the mist is getting  _ thicker _ , if anything, and the ground is still shaking every few seconds, but maybe it’s still marginally better somehow. I’m not really paying attention anymore, and I always feel a little guilty about that. But the last thing I heard Cecil say was something about an old oak door standing out in the middle of nowhere, so I'm obviously not missing anything important. I doubt I’ll be hearing about that door again.

_ “Let’s go now to the sounds of predatory birds.” _

What-

Is that…?

Cecil.

My bird research. 

These are the bird sounds I recorded for you.

I mean, I intended for them to be used for your Science Corner, a few  _ weeks _ ago, but this is still…

Nice.

It’s nice to know you paid attention to my research after all.

Speaking of research.

The specimen leaks out another puddle of suspiciously fuel-like liquid. I need a bucket. There’s got to be a bucket here somewhere. Every time another tremor hits, it makes the liquid spill off the of the desk. My pants are getting filthy. And if this  _ is  _ gasoline, I’m currently a little more flammable than I usually like to be. 

Good thing the gas mask is keeping the fumes at bay. 

Though the mist is getting thicker. And darker. And the screams are a little louder.

A shiver runs down my spine.

God I hope this mist isn’t blood.

Science.

Let’s focus on science. Good old science, no death or chaos or destruction going on. Just science. 

I find a bucket on the shelf under the radio. It’s probably not sterile, but that’s hardly my main concern right now.

Oh.

There’s a collection of red mist pooled at the bottom of the bucket. That’s… not what I want. 

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and dump it out on the floor. It’s not blood, anyway. Can’t be. Not possible. Just… mist. Harmless weather mist, like all mist I’ve ever seen before. No blood here. Nope. No way. Everything’s fine.

I get back to work, trying to collect as much of the liquid as possible, seeing how much of it I can siphon off into beakers before the mist hits it enough to change the chemical structure. I try taking the specimen into the decontamination shower for a clean environment.

But the mist is already there. 

Okay. Keeping calm. The screams are definitely getting louder, but that’s no big deal. I’m fine with that. Completely fine. I keep working. I can’t really get anything  _ done  _ in these conditions, but I keep working. I’m not going to run and hide. I’m fine. I’m not about to die. Not at all. Living like a normal person. Living just as much as always. Fine.

I stab at the specimen with a scalpel, seeing if I can intentionally get some of the liquid to come out. But it’s metal. I can poke and prod and slice and stab as much as I want. It’s metal. It’s not giving. I set down the scalpel to poke it with my finger instead. It dents as easily as playdough. 

The screams get louder.

I’m fine.

The mist gets thicker.

I’m fine.

My labcoat is blood red and dripping onto the floor. The ground is shaking so much that I can’t keep my balance. 

I listen for Cecil, hoping he’ll understand, and will say something comforting.

He isn’t talking. It’s the weather. 

I’m fine.

I’m fine. 

I’m-

Wait.

I’m actually fine.

The screams have stopped. The ground isn’t shaking. The mist is… gone. Completely gone. Everything’s still soaked, and there are crimson puddles on every surface, but the air is clear. The mist must have been blocking the sun, because everything’s bright again. I hadn’t really registered how dark it had been.

So this means…?

_ “We return you now to a safe place. The Street Cleaners have passed. Street Cleaning Day, as so many other days, is behind us.” _

Okay.

Done.

It’s done. It’s all done. Crisis - once again - averted. I’ve survived. Again. Okay. This is good. This is fine. I’m not shaking. I’m fine. I’m still fine. The world almost ended, I was in very real, life-threatening danger, and I stayed at my damn desk and did my damn science. Like it was no big deal. That’s… good. That’s normal. Here, anyway. That was a good reaction. I don’t need to worry about it. A sense of detachment from a near-death experience is… yeah. Normal. I’m sure. I’m sure it’s all good. 

No use worrying about it now.

The specimen.

I pull myself to my feet, ignoring the dripping from my labcoat and fingers and hair. That’s all fine. I’m sure. I take off my gas mask. I get back to my desk.

The specimen is gone.

No.

It can’t be-

It is. Gone. Completely gone. As are the bucket, the beakers, the puddle on my desk. I look down at my pants. Even the stains from the specimen’s liquid are gone. I check my notebook. My notes are gone. The ones about the specimen, anyway. I don’t know why I even bother checking my computer, or my digital camera, or my phone. It’s all gone. Every picture, every reading, every graph, every tiny speculation. Every silly doodle. Gone. It all just fucking disappeared, right when-

Oh. Hm. It…

It all disappeared… right when the Street Cleaners did.

I’m sure… I’m sure that’s a coincidence. Because if not… that would mean…

That I’ve had a piece of a Street Cleaner on my fucking desk for the past hour while its mechanical brethren wrought death and destruction upon the town. 

And that can’t be right. Can it? I can’t have been blissfully stabbing at a Street Cleaner with a knife like it was a normal, harmless thing. 

Coincidence. Must be. Yeah. 

I’m just overreacting because I almost died today and was so distracted by my work that I barely even noticed. But that’s fine. That’s normal. I’m sure it is. Of course it is. If you’re gonna have a breakdown every time something in Night Vale almost kills you, you should probably live somewhere else. 

And I live here.

And I am _capable_ of living here.

And my response today was completely valid. I’m just… getting used to the town. Getting a little desensitized to horror and tragedy. As all Night Vale citizens should.

And that’s a good thing.

Right?

_ “Night has arrived, ladies. Night is here, gentlemen. Night falls on our weary bodies. And night falls on you, too. You too have survived, survived everything up to this moment. Grip tight! Hum! Laugh! Cry! Forget nothing, and think many things of it. _

_ Goodnight. _

_ Goodnight. _

_ Goodnight.” **  
** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General note: I've updated this fic to have an 'M' rating, because I've accepted the fact that Night Vale's canon-typical gore/violence and Carlos's affinity for swear words make it a bit too intense for me to comfortably leave it at its original 'T' rating. Though the rating has changed, the content will likely stay at the same level of intensity.  
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and for your continued support! The response I've received for this fic is incredible.


	16. Ohh... this is bad...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode sixteen: The Phone Call

_“I just said, ‘Neat!’ Ugh. How embarrassing.”_

Breathe.

Deep breaths.

In, out, in, out, in…

Fuck.

I can hear them.

I can hear all of them.

_Do they think I can’t fucking hear them?_

Whispers. Giggles. Monica laughing with delight. I can physically _feel_ them looking at the back of my head.

Breathe.

In, out, in, out.

My face is on fire. It’s burning so hard it’s making my head spin. I’m approaching lethal levels of blushing.

This is what I get.

This is what I fucking get for calling Cecil’s personal number. I mean, he’s told every story of every encounter we’ve ever had, _of_ _course_ he’s going to talk about a goddamn phone call. What was I thinking?

Breathe.

In, out… out… out…

Oh my god.

I can’t breathe.

My airway is closing up. My vision is losing focus. My head is spinning. My chest tightens up. I can’t breathe.

Get out of here.

I stand up. My chair falls over. It makes so much noise, just to spite me, I’m sure.

“I… left some science at home.”

My voice is scratchy. I still can’t catch my breathe. It sounds like I’m wheezing. I suppose I am. But the second it’s out of my mouth, I run.

Well, I don’t run. I walk as fast I can without it looking like I’m running. I get out of the lab as fast as possible, ignoring the chatter and noise behind me. I get the fuck out of the lab. I run up the stairs, only tripping twice before I make it to my apartment. The front door slams behind me and I do up all four locks with my stupidly shaking hands.

Breathe.

In, out… out…

In, out, in, out.

Okay. Home. We’re good now.

_“Wow! Can you believe he called_ me? _”_

I left my laptop closed this morning. Powered off. Closed. Under the sofa cushions.

It’s on the kitchen counter. Open. On. NVCR website loaded and playing a live stream of the broadcast at full volume.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

But… we’re good now. I’m home. I can breathe. Now I can listen without all the other scientists breathing down my back and snickering at me and acting like I don’t know exactly what they’re doing. Now that I’m alone, I can handle this. I can handle Cecil talking about me. About ‘caramel voices’ and ‘oaky tones’ and how smooth and rich  _his_ voice was when he imitated me even though my _actual_ voice cracked at least three times during the conversation.

About how happy he sounded that I called him.

Cecil. You said…

You said ‘Neat’.

I love that word.

And when you said, you sounded so…

So goddamn cute.

Why are you embarrassed about that? It was adorable. I was the one cracking my way through incessant scientific babble like a pubescent boy.

You were so happy to hear from me. I don’t think anyone’s sounded that happy to get a call from me since before I moved here. Hell, even before I moved here, no one was ever very excited to hear from me. At least not on the phone. I’m not good on the phone. But you said ‘Neat!’ and then got embarrassed about it. You said so little. You always know what to say, and you barely said anything. Maybe you’re not good on the phone either.

Or maybe it’s just… me?

No. Not that. Obviously not that.

I said I was going up here for science. It was a horrible lie, and they all know it. But maybe if I come back with some science, they’ll leave me alone. I’m sure there’s something up here I could bring back to help with…

Um.

Help with… what I’m working on today. My science. I’ve been working on it all day.

It’s…

What is it? What have I been doing today?

No. I know this. I _know_ what I’m working on today. I’ve been working on it since before the sun came up (though that’s not a very solid indication of time). I’ve been working on it all day. It’s…

It’s right on the tip of my tongue.

Why…

Why can’t I remember it?

Wait.

What was I doing?

When did I come upstairs? Why aren’t I in the lab?

There’s a cell phone in my hand. I thought I left my phone at my lab bench. When I came upstairs. When I came upstairs… for some reason. I don’t…

_“But. Well. He left me some voicemails.”_

Me?

No… no I didn’t. I didn’t leave you any voicemails. I called you this weekend. You answered. We talked. That’s it. I haven’t called anyone since-

_“First Saved Message: ‘Cecil, sorry to bother you.’”_

My knees give out. I stumble back against the wall by the front door.

That’s my voice.

That’s my voice on Cecil’s answering machine. Being broadcast on the radio.

I didn’t call him.

I look back at the phone in my hand. I try to touch the screen. My fingers are shaking.

Three outgoing calls. To ‘Cecil - Home’. The last one was seconds ago.

But I didn’t call him. I heard him on the radio and I couldn’t breathe and I ran upstairs and then it was right now. Nothing else happened. I just got here. I just got here. I just.

_“‘This is v-_

_…_

_There’s something at my door, Cecil…’”_

My stomach lurches, like I’m going to throw up. Everything feels cold, every drop of blood in my veins is freezing. I try to look around the apartment, but my eyes won’t focus. I’m still collapsed against the wall, but my legs don’t work. I slide to the floor in a heap of limbs. I can hear myself whisper on Cecil’s answering machine. Minutes ago. Right here. That’s me. That’s my voice. Whispering that something’s at my door.

Minutes ago.

But I only got here seconds ago.

_“‘There’s a man in a jacket holding a leather suitcase outside my door, Cecil.’”_

I try to quiet my breathing. But then I realize that I’m not breathing at all. My chest is quivering like my lungs are expanding and collapsing, but nothing is happening. It sounds like a thousand little gasps. Loud enough for a man to hear if he were standing outside my door.

Out. In… in… come on… in… in… _breathe in!_

_“‘Sorry about that, Cecil. I forget what I was doing. I think somebody came over, but I don’t remember who, or what for.’”_

In… in…

Out. In, out, in, out.

I’m breathing. Okay. That’s a start. I can feel the oxygen clear my aching head, just a little. My heart is still pounding as hard as I’ve ever felt it, but the beat feels regular, at least. I’m breathing. I’m breathing. Okay.

_“‘Anyway, I need to meet you.’”_

Wh-

Oh my god.

Please tell me I misheard that. Please tell me voicemail Carlos did _not_ just say that.

I must be going into shock. My brain must be shutting down due to excessive levels of terror and is putting me in an extreme state of denial.

Because I know this is irrational. I know this is completely fucking irrational. After what just happened and what just _didn’t_ happen what I _don’t know_ happened… I shouldn’t be focusing on this. I absolutely should _not_ be focusing on the fact that…

Voicemail Carlos just said he (I?) needs to meet Cecil.

This is Cecil.

 _Cecil_.

Which means he undoubtedly thought-

_“Did you hear that listeners?! A_ date! _”_

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck shit fuck. Shit.

Cecil.

No. No, Cecil. That was not a date.

Unless it was. Because I don’t fucking remember calling him. I was sitting here in my apartment minding my own scientific business and suddenly I made all these calls and saw mysterious men in jackets and I don’t remember a goddamn moment of it so who the fuck knows what the fuck my intentions were and oh my god there isn’t enough air in this apartment.

I pull myself to my feet, legs still feeling roughly as useful as the foam you bite into at the dentist, and stumble over to the living room window. I don’t know if I’ve ever opened it before, but now I feel like I could break the glass with how desperate I am. Oh, there’s no screen on this window. That… can’t be good. I should complain about that.

I’m babbling. I’m babbling to myself. I can’t feel my limbs. I’m worried about a misconception of romantic intention while losing entire chunks of my memory and existence. I can’t get enough air.

I’m somewhere between a panic attack and a bad dream.

I stick my head out the open, unscreened window. It’s hot out. Muggy. Why is it muggy in a desert? There shouldn’t be enough humidity for it to be this… humid. I’ll have to look into that. It’s too hot. Shouldn’t it be winter? Or… should it? What month is it?

I think my vision is going black.

In, out, in, out.

Fresh air. Nasty air, but fresh air.

I’m breathing.

I can’t process this right now. Obviously. That’s why my brain is making me care so much about this not-date. Because it’s so much easier to deal with than… than…

Nope. Not thinking about it. Nothing happened. As far as I can remember, nothing happened.

What else am I not remembering? How many times has this happened?

No.

This date problem. I’ll deal with that.

Cecil, it wasn’t a date.

And… It’s not that… I don’t… _want_ it to be-

It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t asking you on a date, Cecil. What do I have to do, say ‘I’m not calling for personal reasons’ anytime I pick up a phone?

I can fix this. I can call him again, explain gently that I didn’t mean this to be a date (because I didn’t. I didn’t. I _didn’t_. I…). Explain that I just need to talk to him about science.

But like, not in a romantic way.

I can do this. I stand up.

I forgot my head is out a window. I hit my head on the frame.

Fuck.

I close the window. I find my cell phone where I dropped it by the front door. I’ll call Cecil, I’ll fix this simple misconception, I won’t be _at all_ disappointed that I’m not going on a date with Cecil, I’ll go back down to the lab, and I’ll do my science. That’s easy-

Wait…

Is that…

I step closer to the front door.

Are those… I think I can hear… footsteps? Is that… someone outside my apartment?

I open the door-

I’m standing in my apartment. The front door is closed. There’s a cell phone in my hands.

Hm...

What was I doing?

_“Thank you again, Night Vale. May you too find love in this dark desert. May it be as permanent as the blinking lights, and as comforting as the dull roar of space._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter already? Yes! I've had this one written for a while (it's the first time we hear Carlos on the show, after all. I've had big plans for it from the start), and I figured there wasn't any point in waiting to post it.  
> Once again, thank you to all of my wonderful readers. Even if I haven't had time to respond to everyone individually, the comments I'm getting on this fic (here and elsewhere) are so, SO incredible. I really can't thank you enough.


	17. We can see what you were going for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode seventeen: "Valentine's Day"

_“‘...but maybe we just don’t get that kind of thing. Anyway, creative stuff! And have a happy Valentine’s!’_

_Those monsters . ”_

Ah. Well. Well then.

I suppose I’m not surprised. I really shouldn’t be surprised. Or disappointed.

I’m not disappointed.

Or surprised.

I’m normal.

Completely normal, enjoying my completely normal day.

Valentine’s Day is some sort of horror fest in Night Vale.

Obviously.

Seriously, I should have seen this coming. I should have known, and been prepared. Of course being someone’s Valentine is some sort of horrible death sentence. Not something sweet. Of course. I could have guessed that. And been prepared.

I glance down.

The Valentine actually turned out really nice. I’m not usually artistically skilled. But it looks nice.

‘You must be made of Copper and Tellurium, because you are…’

And I drew a little periodic table. And an extra Copper and Tellurium underneath it. ‘Cu’ and ‘Te’.

CuTe.

Cute.

Oh.

I thought it was clever. Or at least, charming. Now it seems a little…

No, I still think it’s pretty great.

I turn it over. 'Happy Valentine’s Day, from Carlos'. With my best handwriting. The kind with the little swirls on the ‘y’s. It looks good. It’s simple. Not overdone. A simple science pun. A simple greeting. Nothing overdramatic that could be taken too seriously. It looks really nice. I spent a bit more time on it than I’m comfortable admitting.

And it turns out Valentine’s Day isn’t a thing here.

I’m not disappointed.

I’m not disappointed.

I’m not…

I set the Valentine down on my desk. I think Cecil would like it. I _thought_ Cecil would like it. It’s silly, but kinda sweet. It has a science pun. What’s not to like? But apparently he’d set it on fire and burrow himself into the carpet while shrieking in terror if he ever saw it. But that’s fine. I’m totally fine with that. I’ll just…

I open up the bottom drawer of my desk. It’s empty (there’s an unpacked box next to it that says ‘desk things’). I set the card in the drawer. Gently. It’s a nice card. I thought it turned out pretty good. Better than I expected. I thought it was a nice gesture.

Especially with how… understanding Cecil has been. Meeting with him last week was one of the most painfully awkward things I’ve ever had to do - and I have quite an impressive list of painfully awkward encounters. Because I had to explain. I wasn’t meeting him for personal reasons. It wasn’t a date. I didn’t ask him on a date. I may have _considered_ asking -

It wasn’t a date.

And I had to tell him that.

I thought it would be horrific, to be honest. I thought he’d be on the radio the next day, wailing and moaning and… quite possibly… _blaming_ me for getting his hopes up. For _not_ wanting it to be a date. I thought it’d be a town-wide crisis akin to when I got a haircut.

But then… it wasn’t.

You looked so disappointed when I explained that it was a purely scientific meeting, Cecil. But just for a second. Then you schooled yourself, and settled in for a strictly platonic conversation, and then (I still can’t quite get over this part) you _apologized_ for assuming it was a date, and saying as much on the radio. In case you made me feel uncomfortable. You apologized. I wasn’t prepared for that. And the meeting was great. We had coffee, I went through my list of questions about what might be actual scientific anomalies and what was just… Night Vale being Night Vale, and I gave you a list of things to warn your listeners about. Or at least, to keep their eyes on.

But it went so well. And you were so respectful of the boundaries of not-dates. And you never brought it up again. You haven’t since. Not a word of it was spoken on your show. I think everyone understood your silence to mean that it wasn’t the ‘date’ you were expecting, because no one else has brought it up, either. It was a misunderstanding, it’s done now, and the awkwardness only lasted a few seconds. You were really… good about it, Cecil. Calm and understanding and under _stated_ in a way you usually aren’t when it comes to me. I really appreciate that.

Which is why it’s been so difficult to process the reason why I can’t get the goddamn _guilt_ out of my brain now, no matter how hard I try.

Because it felt like a rejection. Me rejecting you. Me saying that I don’t want to go on a date with you, and I never have, and I never will.

And that’s just… a little too permanent for me.

I’m not saying I want to…

But that doesn’t mean I _don’t_ …

It’s all very confusing and jumbled and there’s still this yo-yo line where I can’t tell what your intentions are but the line is getting thinner and thinner and I just don’t know.

So I made a Valentine.

A simple, easy, non-committal Valentine that doesn’t proclaim everlasting love, but doesn’t quite say ‘super platonic non-romantic completely uninterested friends forever’ either. I spent a long time trying to find the right thing to say on it, to get across the right message.

But I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. The Valentine is hidden in my desk. And Cecil will never see it.

It’s probably for the best. Cecil might not like science puns (though the mere thought of that makes me queasy). Cecil might not _get_ the pun, even though I tried to draw it clearly enough. Maybe this type of science pun isn’t transferrable to Night Vale. Hell, maybe Cecil is actually made of nothing but pure Copper and Tellurium so it’d just look like an unnecessarily pointed fact. Yeah, it’s for the best. It wouldn’t have gone over well. I’m sure.

I’m… sure.

It’s for the best.

It doesn’t matter now, anyway.

Moving on.

Yeah, moving on.

I thought there would be so much science to do today. The City Council gave everyone the day off for Valentine’s. I originally thought ‘wow, what a nice gesture, letting workers take a day off to enjoy a pleasant holiday’.

Yep. Definitely should have known better.

Still, all things considered, I guess it was pretty nice of them to give us the day off to… I don’t know… stay indoors. Hide. Avoid the chaos on the streets. Keep safe.

But now I have the entire day off, and… yeah. I don’t really know what to do with that.

So I found some science to bring up to my apartment.

I mean, since I’m not in the lab, I’m not technically working. This is just, for fun. A hobby. Casual science. I’m even wearing casual, lounging labcoat.

The only problem is…

My subject was easy enough to decide. I could hear how messed up things were getting out there. Projectiles, gasses, explosives, you name it. I figured I could grab any piece of debris from right outside my door and it’d be a scientific goldmine.

Once again, I should have known better.

Because it’s all just…

Valentine’s Day.

Candy hearts. Glitter. Those stuffed animals holding little stuffed hearts with magnets in their mouths to make them kiss their fellow stuffed animals. Small boxes of candies with Valentine-adjacent messages for kids to hand out in school. I snuck into the mall during clean-up to try and grab a sample of the poisonous gas that left such a high body count. I wore a complete biohazard suit just to be safe. I processed it as carefully as possible.

Vanilla.

Chocolate

Traces of cinnamon.

All-natural scents, as far as I can tell.

It smells like cookies. It’s that fake cookie smell bakeries pump into the street to make people hungry. Completely harmless.

Absolutely delicious.

I need to buy cookies.

All of this stuff is completely fucking harmless. One-hundred percent normal Valentine’s Day memorabilia. There weren’t even any rough edges on any of the cardboard hearts to potentially give someone a papercut. I checked all of them. This is literally the safest collection of objects I have ever found in Night Vale.

So naturally this is the stuff that shut down the entire city for a day.

It’s almost…

No. It’s not disappointing. That’s a horrible thought. People have - apparently - _died_ today, because of this stuff. This pile of glitter and pastels and spun sugar. The teddy bear looking at me with its big, glassy, heart-shaped eyes. This teddy bear is a killer.

So here I am, on my city-appointed day off, with an entire Hallmark store on my living room desk. And nothing to do. There’s no valuable scientific potential here, I’ve already analyzed all of it. Now I have no idea what to do next. If this stuff is viewed as so fucking dangerous, I highly doubt I’ll be allowed to stuff it all in my empty linen closet. I’ll have to… I don’t know… dispose of it. Somehow.

Maybe this stuff really _is_ lethal in a Night Valian context. Maybe it’s only harmful to people native to the town. Or to Night Vale-specific phenomena, like Hooded Figures or wheat-based demons. Maybe, if it’s not harmful to me, I could weaponize it somehow. Use it like a burning torch to ward off things that are _actually_ dangerous.

Then again, I don’t really want to be caught hoarding copious amounts of highly-lethal objects during my next scheduled unwarranted raid by the Sheriff’s Secret Police.

Maybe I’ll just pile this stuff up outside the door. That won’t look suspicious. This stuff is strewn across every street in town. One little pile won’t stand out. The city can deal with it however it chooses. I’ll get rid of all the Valentine’s paraphernalia.

Oh.

 _All_ of the Valentine’s paraphernalia.

That would include…

The actual Valentine.

I mean… I can’t give it to Cecil anyway. What’s the point?

I could slide it under my apartment door. Let the clean-up crews take care of it. Never have to think about it again.

I open the desk drawer. It’s sitting at the bottom, somehow already a little bit dusty.

Just pick it up, put it outside, let it be destroyed. Never think about it again.

But…

I worked hard on it. It turned out so nice. There’s… I mean, technically… there’s no real reason to get rid of it, right? The Sheriff’s Secret Police probably won’t check this specific drawer, right? It’s probably fine.

I wouldn’t be keeping it for sentimental reasons. That’d be dumb. It’s just… it’s all the way at the bottom of the drawer. It’d be such a hassle to reach all the way down to grab it. It’s easier this way.

Yeah, that’s it. It’s easier. I’m too lazy to grab it. Too much effort. No other reason.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, from Carlos’. With the little swirls on the ‘y’s.

Yeah. No other reason at all.

I close the drawer.

_“This Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will soon recede into painful memory, fading with time until another foul Valentine’s Day is upon us again. Stay tuned next for me saying ‘Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight’._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

****  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did google 'bad science pick-up lines' to find that pun.  
> Not much else to say this time, so, as always, thank you SO MUCH for reading, and for your continued lovely responses.


	18. And now for corrections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode eighteen: "The Traveler"

_“In a previous report, we at Night Vale Community Radio were talking about the commonly-held belief that there is such a thing as ‘Mountains’.”_

Oh god. Here we go.

_“We scoffed at this belief,”_

Oh yes, you most certainly did. You scoffed. Loudly. You scoffed.

When I tried to talk to you about mountains.

I thought it’d be a nice subject for the next Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. You know, dealing with different landscapes than most kids here see everyday. Mountains. Mountains are fun. Kids like mountains. Because mountains are things. Things that exist.

Mountains are things that exist, Cecil.

_“In fact, we devoted a full day of our programming to getting together the entire station staff and screaming, in unison, ‘MOUNTAINS? MORE LIKE NOTHINGS’ into the microphone.”_

Yeah, Cecil, I remember that too.

I thought you were all… I don’t know… kidding.

I thought it was some regular chant-type-thing. You know, ‘All Hail the Glow Cloud’, that sort of thing. People chant stuff here. The stuff being chanted isn’t always relevant.

I didn’t realize you actually _don’t believe in mountains_ until I suggested them for the Science Corner.

And you were confused.

Because the Science Corner is supposed to be about “ _Real_ science”, not “science fiction”.

You called mountains “science fiction”.

_You called mountains “science fiction”._

What the fuck.

What the fuck is my life.

Bloodstone circles, pteranodons, time travelers… I can handle that. Every town has its quirks, right?

But not _believing_ in _mountains_?

This might be a deal-breaker.

_“Recently, one of our previous-mentioned friends, who thankfully had not yet been apprehended by the Council, took us for a drive out to a mountain.”_

Wow, Cecil.

I take you on a roadtrip to show you _actual science_ firsthand, and you don’t even mention me by name?

That’s…

Huh.

That’s... impressive.

Last week you did an entire report on how I waved at you when I saw you at the gas station.

An entire report. It lasted over five minutes. The lab was in an uproar. No one got anything done the rest of the day. They were too busy quoting it back to me. Any time I moved, they narrated it, doing their best Cecil impressions.

But yesterday you got into my car with me, sat in the passenger seat for an hour-long drive (each way), and listened to me giving you scientific facts about mountains for an _entire afternoon_... and I’m just a “previous-mentioned friend”?

There wasn’t even a station-wide ‘us’ involved. It was just you, Cecil. I didn’t take anyone else. You keep talking about it like a group event. It was just you and me. On a day trip to a mountain. It was a long trip, so I brought snacks. We had a goddamn picnic at the foot of a mountain. At sunset. The last time I asked to see you in person, you thought it was a date with absolutely no provocation. But after all of _this_ , you-

Oh.

Oh, I get it.

Oh, shit.

It wasn’t a date last time. And you apologized for assuming it was. I said “I’m not calling for personal reasons,” when I asked to take you to the mountain. Because it wasn’t a date this time.

And this time, you’re acknowledging that.

Fuck.

I was uncomfortable when you told everyone I asked you on a date, because I didn’t.

So you aren’t telling anyone this time. You aren’t even saying it was me. Not only are you proving that _you_ didn’t get the wrong idea, you aren’t even giving anyone else the _opportunity_ to get the wrong idea.

A “previously-mentioned friend” took a ‘group’ of station employees to a mountain. And that’s all.

Dammit, Cecil.

I don’t know what to do with this. I’ve never really been certain of anything when it comes to you, but I thought more time in Night Vale would eventually lead to more understanding. And while that certainly has worked with some things (I haven’t gotten a citation for improper conduct from the Sheriff’s Secret Police in almost three months), I feel like every single day I understand even _less_ about you… and… this…

I don’t even know.

Cecil, I have a goddamned _time-traveling flower_ on my desk right now and you’re _still_ the most confusing thing I’ve ever dealt with.

_“I’m still not completely sold on there being more than_ one _mountain. It’s possible that the mountain apologists built a single mountain in order to prove their skewed world view. Not certain, listeners, not certain. But possible.”_

Oh holy fucking mother of shit.

Was that…

Are you…

That little lilt in your voice.

Were you just…

Flirting?

With me?

No one knows it was me. No one but you. I’m the only person who knows that you were just talking about me.

‘Not sold on there being more than one mountain.’

Like…

Like you might need to see another one?

Like you might… want to see another one?

With me?

My elbow slips off the edge of my desk. I was leaning all my weight on that elbow. I try to catch my balance, but it happened too fast. My head crashes down onto the keyboard of my open laptop. I manage to mash just the right combination of keys, because the laptop lets out a loud, piercing tone, right next to my ear.

I scramble to my feet, shoving the laptop away and taking a step away from my desk.

I can feel every set of eyes in the lab watching me.

Deep breath.

Yeah, I totally meant to do that. We’re good here.

I calmly sit back down, my posture just a bit too controlled to look natural. I clear my throat, like that could cover up my embarrassment.

Come on, back to work.

It’s not every day you get to try and piece together the DNA of a time-traveling plant, after all.

Though I can’t say I like the guy who gave it to me.

He’s been all over town, bragging so much he might as well be wearing a flashing sign that says ‘I’M A TIME-TRAVELER ISN’T THAT COOL???’ So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he showed up to the lab. Big, stupid grin on his face. Smug. Big, stupid beard. I hate him.

He doled out a series of trinkets like it was some sort of blessing. ‘Here, have things from an _actual time-traveler_ , isn’t that exciting?!’

I mean, it _is_ exciting.

But he could be less annoying about it.

He gave everyone something. Some personal belonging or piece of everyday junk that he brought with him from his own time, so we could examine them. And yes, it _is_ scientifically fascinating. He gave me a flower. But he was skeezy about it. He’s skeezy about everything. I almost didn’t want to take it. Like taking the flower was somehow letting him win.

But I did anyway, because let’s be honest, _time-traveling flower_.

I’m still not sure what type of flower it is, and I have no idea what the average lifespan is for its species, but it’s… Yeah. It’s definitely traveling through time.

It started off as a little bud. Two hours later, it had shrunk to a tiny root. Now it’s a giant bloom, constantly changing colors as the petals mature. For an hour or so I gave up doing any experiments and just watched it for a while. I think it’s getting younger again. It went from green to white to yellow to red to purple, and now it seems to be fading back to an orange-ish color. I’ll keep taking notes, of course, but… I kind of just want to see how this plays out.

_“Ladies and Gentlemen and those of you not clearly falling into either category, it is my ambivalent duty to report that the traveler is suddenly gone.”_

No, wait!

No no no shit no no fuck!

I reach for the flower, but it’s too late.

It disappears, right as I’m watching it.

In a matter of seconds, it shrinks down to a bud, a shriveled stem, a seed, and then… poof. Gone. Completely gone.

I glance around the lab. There’s a general angry-sort-of-hubbub happening at every bench. Great. Everyone else’s crap is gone too.

As if I didn’t already dislike that guy.

Giving us a bunch of stuff that he _knows_ is going to disappear with him before we can really do anything with it.

Jackass.

There’s a long moment of tension in the lab. Then, by some sort of mutual decision, everyone lets out a breath. Because there goes today’s work.

“Half day?” David suggests, already pulling off his work goggles and replacing them with his socializing goggles.

“Yeah, might as well,” I say, trying to curb the worst of my disappointment.

Everyone scatters. Some linger, taking their time putting away their equipment, but for the most part, they’re ready to go. Have a free night. Probably see people. Hang out.

And that’s not really my thing.

Hell, the last time I left my apartment for something other than work or food was…

A trip to a mountain.

Huh.

Monica’s the last one here. I remember all the Night Vale-appropriate signs to tell her to enjoy her night off.

She signs the same back to me. Gives me one of her giant smiles.

I smile back. She leaves.

Successful social interaction. Good job.

The lab is empty. But I don’t really feel like leaving yet.

Where would I go, anyway?

_“Finally, we are pleased to end today’s broadcast with some happy news from Night Vale’s hospital. There have been several additions to the community…”_

Hm.

You sound pretty happy today, Cecil. It’s not much of a difference, but. I don’t know. There’s something a little… lighter than usual.

I’m probably just imagining it.

I’m…

Yeah. Just imagining it.

I glance back down at my empty desk. Right where there _used_ to be-

Wait.

It’s back.

Right where I left it. Right where it was before it disappeared. A tiny, sprouting seed.

Huh.

Well, there you go. More science to be done. Good. No more pressure to find something else to do with my time.

Good.

I open up my spreadsheets again, ready to add the disappearance and reappearance to the timeline.

My finger hovers over the mouse pad.

Hm.

Maybe.

Hm.

I take a quick virtual detour, opening up Google instead.

Search: ‘Mountains near me.’

_“Stay tuned next for an exact, word-for-word repeat of this broadcast, that will seem to you imperceptibly but unshakably different, although you will never be able to explain why._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

****  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been convinced that Carlos took Cecil to that mountain since I first heard this episode. I've been waiting for a chance to unleash this particular headcanon. =)  
> As always, thank you to all of my wonderful readers! This story has the best fans in the world, and I'm so honored to hear your incredible responses.


	19. The real answer is far more terrifying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode nineteen-a: "The Sandstorm"

_“So make peace with your double, Night Vale. Do not be tempted to draw swords or guns. We can get along.”_

Yeah.

Okay.

That’s a nice thought, Cecil, but ‘getting along’ has never really been my thing.

Not that I don’t _get along_ with people. I just _don’t_ get along with them.

I have no desire to fight my double. None whatsoever.

But that’s because I have no desire to ever even _see_ my double.

Ever.

Holy fuck I hope I never meet my double.

I’m surprised I’m even taking the _idea_ of having a ‘double’ this well. I know my threshold for horror has drastically changed over the last few months, but honestly. A double. A second me. Well, a second ‘me’. I’m not sure I’m completely sold on this thing actually being another real, actual _me_ _._ Maybe that’s why I’m handling this so well. I just haven’t bought into it yet, conceptually. It’s probably something else. Clones. Or… robots. Holograms. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Very convincing latex masks. Not doubles. That’s ridiculous. If there’s another… Carlos-ish person out there, he’s not me. Not really. I’m me.

So I have no desire whatsoever to find this… person. Double. Carlos the Second. Other-Carlos. _Not_ -Carlos.

Yeah. That one. Not-Carlos.

I have no desire to meet Not-Carlos.

So I’d really appreciate it if he’d _get out of my fucking lab._

To be fair, I didn’t really check. I didn’t want to look into it that closely.

I went downstairs this morning, and the lab was already some sort of… double-fest. I suppose that’s what I get for oversleeping and getting there five minutes late.

But come on, only _five minutes._

And the entire lab was doubled.

That’s just not fair.

There were two of everyone. I didn’t question it at first (and isn’t that troublesome: _I didn’t question it at first_ ). Someone’s experiments must have gone wrong, that’s what I assumed. Some pairs were fighting. Others staring at each other, cautiously. Monica and… Not-Monica were signing so fast I couldn’t see their hands, laughing their asses off.

All in all, not the strangest thing I’ve seen, let's be honest.

And then I looked at my corner of the lab.

It’s not conclusive. I didn’t look into it. I didn’t check.

After all, I’m not _that_ familiar with what the back of my head looks like.

But he was sitting in my chair. My favorite chair. Hunched over my laptop. Wearing the same wrinkled labcoat I threw on this morning as I ran down the stairs. Dark hair, curling spastically around the ears and the nape of the neck.

He didn’t turn around. I didn’t see his face.

But it was enough.

I immediately turned around, calmly went back upstairs to my apartment, and secured every one of the locks on my door.

And for good measure, I found an old permanent marker and drew an ‘X’ on my forehead. Because I’m the real Carlos. And now I’ve marked myself as Real Carlos.

Then again… if that person downstairs really thinks he’s me, he’s probably already marked his own forehead.

Fuck.

The fact that he was sitting at my desk, calmly continuing his work while everyone else went Double-Crazed is actually a pretty good sign that he knows how I think. If he really _is_ my double, he’s apparently just as uninterested in meeting me as I am in meeting him.

Hm. I almost appreciate that. We’re the most antisocial doubles in town. Birds of a feather.

So as long as I keep actively ignoring the Not-Carlos sitting in my spot in the lab, maybe I can still get something done today. I managed to snatch a petri dish off of Rochelle’s desk before I ran upstairs (she and her double were wrestling, so I highly doubt she’ll miss it), so at least I have something to work with.

And it’s… a magnet?

I mean, probably?

Why was it in a petri dish?

Did Rochelle _grow_ this magnet?

I suppose I’m still not sure it’s a magnet.

But… it seems like a magnet. It should be a magnet. I’m pretty sure it’s a magnet. It hasn’t been drawn to or repelled by anything yet, but there’s just that… feeling. A magnetic field sort of feeling. That has to be what this is. If I could just find the other pole, I could figure out-

Oh.

Right.

The other pole.

The other half of this magnet.

I know _exactly_ where it is.

Because the world thinks it’s funny today. Thinks it’s _real_ clever.

He’s got it. Obviously.

I mean, I don’t know he does. But I just _know_ he does.

Of course he does.

Not-Carlos has the other half of my science.

Well.

At least he can’t get anything done with it either. That’s… oddly comforting. In a mean way.

Stupid sandstorm.

Stupid doubles.

Stupid city-wide Double Day.

Stupid day.

_“Oh my. Look at that, listeners.”_

Ugh.

Cecil, I’m not really in the mood right now.

How do I turn off the radio? No offense, but… no. I’ll turn it back on in a minute.

If I could just figure out where the fuck it’s coming from. My laptop is downstairs. The TV is turned off. What the fuck is transmitting goddamn radio waves in my apartment right now?

_“There is a black, almost indigo vortex that has formed along my studio wall.”_

Cecil.

No.

Cecil, don’t fucking tell me you’re going to go in a magical portal in your radio studio. Don’t do that, Cecil.

 _Obviously_ don’t do that, Cecil. You should already know that you shouldn’t go jumping through portals. Especially not on a day that’s already this… fucked up. You shouldn’t need someone to stop you from doing this incredibly dumb thing.

_“I must go. I will try not to be long, listeners. I will try not to be long…”_

Oh my god.

I can’t…

Oh my god.

Cecil, what the fuck.

Someone should leash you to your desk. Get a seatbelt for your chair. I can’t believe you just did that.

There’s silence.

You did it.

You went through the fucking portal.

I can feel the first flicker of stress-induced heartburn in my chest.

Footsteps.

Thank god, footsteps. You must not have gone through after all. Good, because I seriously can’t-

_“Hello?”_

My skin crawls.

_“Hello, Desert Bluffs?”_

I shiver. I can feel it everywhere. It starts in my neck and shoots down my limbs, my spine, jolting all the way down to each of my toes. Pinpricks of cold discomfort, everywhere.

I was so ready to hear Cecil. I was so ready to hear Cecil’s soothing, comforting voice. I’m so used to it now. I hear Cecil’s voice more than any other sound these days. I know his voice better than my own.

And this is nothing like his voice.

This is…

I don’t know.

Where’s Cecil?

What did you do to him?

But don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it in... this voice.

I’m sitting down. I’m on the couch. I don’t really remember getting over here, but it’s good, because I’m not sure I can feel my legs.

Cecil…

_“You may not know me, nor I you, but we have this mic, and this voice, and your warm ears blossoming open to hear comforting secrets in the vibrations of a voice that pulse so deep into your body, your heart relaxes for a time.”_

Is this what a relaxed heart feels like?

Because I can’t breathe.

Every muscle in my body is tensed. It’s like a fight-or-flight instinct, and my body’s trying to do both at once. I’m trapped. Trapped by this voice.

‘Comforting secrets.’

I’ve never felt this uncomfortable in my life.

Everything is wrong. From the way my breaths are shallow and uneven to the sticky-sweet taste in my mouth. I feel like I need to change my clothes, like these ones are dirty now. They feel damp with something thick and unclean. There’s something so… wrong. My teeth hurt. My glasses are too tight against my head. It’s like growing pains in my limbs, the insistent need to move and shift, but with the knowledge that it’s futile. Nothing will fix it. I feel sick.

Even after the voice stops, it’s not okay. The pressure is lifted off my chest, but the… wrongness… hasn’t quite faded. It’s a gut-feeling, an instinct right at the base of my skull that I can’t quite shake. It’s like there’s someone behind me. I can’t make myself turn around to check.

Breathe. At least do that.

Breathe. The feeling starts to fade.

Breathe.

_“Hello…? Night Vale…? I told you I would be back.”_

Cecil.

I breathe in, and I can feel it in each of my limbs.

Cecil.

You’re okay.

You’re back.

That… whoever… _what_ ever that was, that’s done.

Cecil.

It’s like a switch, like everything that was so wrong just got flicked into rightness again. It’s instantaneous.

Hearing your voice means everything is right.

Maybe not everything is _good_ _,_ but everything is right.

You’re at your desk. You’re here. You’re broadcasting. That’s how it’s supposed to be. No matter what else there is, at least there’s that.

Don’t do that again. Don’t go through a portal just because it showed up. Don’t go fuck knows where and let fuck knows who come here and talk to us instead of you. I never want to hear that voice again. Especially instead of yours. Please don’t do that again, Ceec.

But it’s normal again. It’s okay again. That feeling in the pit of my gut is gone. There’s no one over my shoulder.

Okay.

Done.

What…

What now?

There’s… science to be done. Yeah.

Shake it off, move on, yeah.

Yeah.

Fuck. Not-Carlos has half of my science.

I still have no interest in meeting him.

Hell, I now have significantly _less_ interest in meeting him.

Maybe I’ll just… stay here for a bit. Wait out the sandstorm. Take a minute to… yeah. Be here. The feeling is gone, nothing’s wrong anymore. But… I could use a moment. The lab seemed pretty busy anyway. I’m sure no one will miss me.

They might even think I’m already there.

Yeah. I can spare a minute to myself. Sit, and breathe, and listen to the radio. Listen to Cecil on the radio. Listen to his voice, calming and rich and soothing and… here. Like it should be.

Yeah.

Like it should be.

_“We are home, Night Vale. You and I are together again. My mouth, your ears, we have each other. And for now, as always:_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is exclusively for episode 19a. We're in for an unconventional chapter next time...  
> As always, I want to thank all of my readers, whether you've just started, or you've been with me from the start. You make this fic such a wonderful experience for me.


	20. How exciting!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode nineteen-b: "The Sandstorm"

_“So make friends with your mirrored colleague, Desert Bluffs. Think of what we could accomplish if there were two of all of us!”_

Hm. Well, that’s certainly one way of putting it. “Make friends.” There’s some merit to that. Though it’s certainly not what I was expecting. Is that really in your script, Kevin? You know what happens when you change their words. But I have to admit, I understand the logic behind it. “Make friends.” Get the Doubles to do the work of the originals. Nicely. Convince them. Let them make the decision of their own will. It may not be the plan, but it’s… Simple. Elegant. Certainly less messy. There’s value in containing mess. At least, I imagine there is.

Hm. “Make friends.” I had never considered that. I suppose I never needed to. I knew I’d never meet my Double. It’s been a few minutes since the Sandstorm hit. I’m sure he’s been taken care of by now.

“Make friends.” It can’t do any harm. Even if they decide that’s not to their liking, at least twice the work was getting done for a while.

But I’ll never believe that was in your script. Be careful with that, Kevin. I don’t like it when you change their words. You know what happens, you _know_. And this isn’t some small quibble of phrasing or nuance, this is the Sandstorm. It’s been scheduled for weeks. You’ve had this script for weeks. Now is not the time to take artistic license.

“Make friends.”

Hm.

Maybe it would have been nice to have that option. To actually see my Double, maybe even to meet him. It would have been interesting, at the very least. If every random citizen on the street gets to see their Double, surely a Scientist should be allowed the same experience. My department has been preparing for the Sandstorm for _months_ _,_ and yet we don’t get to reap the benefits. Though I suppose that’s hardly surprising. They haven’t really grasped the concept of ‘rewards’ yet. ‘Punishment’, yes. They have that down to a…

Well.

Things could be worse. Things could always be worse. Things will be worse. Enjoy what’s better. It won’t last. The mantra repeats itself in my head. Always does. It’s a near-constant refrain. As though my brain is afraid I’ll forget it. As though there _isn’t_ a poster of those very words, dripping down the wall next to my work station. I had hoped those posters wouldn’t come with us during the move to Desert Bluffs. Wishful thinking, I suppose. It’s been ten months since my team arrived, and the posters haven’t stopped dripping since. They were already here on our first day.

Hm. I suppose if there’s one thing I should expect from Strex, it’s efficiency.

Efficiency, and stains on my labcoat. Though, I have to admit, after all this time, I almost enjoy the way the dark streaks and splotches look against the bright yellow fabric. Artistic. By now, I can’t quite remember what this labcoat looked like when it was clean. The stains never quite come out. I think Strex prefers it that way. Permanence. A reminder. Several reminders. Some of it, from me. Most of it, from someone else.

Hm. I wonder if my Double was given a labcoat. Or if he already had one. I doubt he’ll be doing much Science where he’s going. Where he’s already gone, I’m sure. Strex. Efficiency. We’ve been prepared for this. My entire team, we’ve been ready for weeks. Once Strex finally scheduled the Sandstorm, everything went according to plan. I pull up the cuff of my left sleeve, admiring the way the color looks against my skin for a moment.

The brand is still clear on my wrist. Good. The skin is still raised and puckered, varying from bright red to the blood-drained white of a new scar. The Strex logo, clean, and rigid, and permanent. Permanence. We were given the brand two weeks ago, to be prepared. I was worried that the Doubles might be branded as well, if we had them for so long on our skin. But I’ve shown my brand to several officers throughout the day, and no one has questioned me. I’m real. I’m not a Double. I’m branded. I’m a Scientist. There won’t be any confusion. There never will be. Anyone of importance has been marked. We’ll be left alone. Unlike the Doubles. Permanence. Efficiency.

Though since I’m marked in the first place, I don’t understand why my Double couldn’t be here. If he’s me, or somewhat me, I’m sure he could be helpful. Monitoring the effects of the Sandstorm is exhausting. The entire team has been working even harder than usual, all day. Twice the amount of eyes and hands would be immensely helpful. I don’t know where the Doubles have been taken. We were told that didn’t concern us. Which also didn’t make sense. We know the Doubles are going to be tested, to see if their DNA is truly identical, among other things. Who better to perform those tests than the Scientists?

Hm. Maybe they didn’t want us to have to perform those tests on ourselves. Wherever my Double is, I know he’s not enjoying himself. Perhaps that was some small kindness from Strex. Kindness to us, anyway. Not to our others.

Hm. Kindness from Strex. That can’t be right.

_“Oh my. Look at that.”_

Kevin. This doesn’t sound like your script. Please don’t go off script. You know what they do. You know how much they hate it. You know how much I hate it when you make them hateful.

_“Listeners, there’s a white, almost pink vortex that has formed along my studio wall.”_

Hm. That’s… that’s not part of it. That’s not ours. We didn’t do that. I look down, pulling up the Sandstorm schedule on my tablet. I scan the pages and pages of notes and instructions. Nothing about a vortex. Nothing about the studio.

Kevin wasn’t supposed to be involved. I made sure of that. He was supposed to be left alone.

_“I must go. I will try not to be long, listeners. I will try not to be long…”_

Kevin. Kevin, no. You’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to stay at your desk. To report. To be left alone. You’re not supposed to be involved. I made sure of that, Kevin. It wasn’t easy. It took a lot of work to get that guarantee, Kevin.

And now you’ve gone and jumped into a vortex in your office.

I can hear footsteps. They slosh up to the microphone, tiny splashes in the puddles and pools in your studio. I can hear your shoes displace the blood as you walk back to your desk. Good, because I can’t-

_“Hello?”_

Hm. That’s…

_“Hello, Night Vale?”_

I shiver. I can feel it everywhere. It starts in my neck and shoots down my limbs, my spine, jolting all the way down to each of my toes.

And it’s…

Hm. It’s… pleasant.

A shiver from a sudden shift in temperature. I’m warm now. Everything is warm. I feel… calm. That doesn’t make sense. I’m always calm. That’s the first thing a Strex Scientist is. Calm. Unaffected. Letting it all happen around you. Not worrying about what it is. But right now… I really don’t. I don’t worry. I don’t worry about anything right now. This voice is… calm, and Kevin-

Where’s Kevin?

What did you do to him?

Kevin wasn’t supposed to go through that vortex. That wasn’t the plan. I’m worried about that. But, this voice…

_“I want to be home, Night Vale.”_

Night Vale?

Hm. Night Vale.

Someone came through the vortex in your studio, and they’re from Night Vale. That’s… interesting. That’s… something. That’s certainly something. I should write that down. I lift up my tablet, grabbing the stylus. My fingers feel heavy. And… soft. Heavy and soft and light and calm.

Night Vale.

A vortex to Night Vale. A radio studio in Night Vale. This voice. This voice, in Night Vale. Calming and soothing and… _perfect_ _._ I want to listen to this voice. I want to do what this voice tells me to do. I want to believe what this voice tells me to believe.

Yes, this could be good.

Night Vale.

I’ll have to remember this. This is potential. Kevin is hope, Kevin is cheerful and insistent and nothing can ever bother him. That’s good. That’s useful. He’s a beacon. People want to believe him, to be as hopeful as he is, no matter what happens. That’s useful. But this voice, this voice compels. Strex can speak to Desert Bluffs through Kevin, and the people don’t complain. But if we had _this_ voice as well…

Hm. Potential. Possibility.

_“Dear listeners, from this vile,_ vile _place, I leave you to your prison.”_

Hm. That’s just rude. I’ve rather come to like Desert Bluffs. Of all the places Strex has taken me, this… well. This is certainly one of them.

Now that the voice is gone, I realize how much it affected me. How much it soothed me. How much I wanted to please it. I don’t feel in control of myself. I feel stuck. Lethargic. Too soothed. Too calm. Too compliant.

Breathe. At least do that.

Breathe. The feeling starts to fade.

Breathe.

_“Hello there, Desert Bluffs! It is Kevin again. I told you I would be back.”_

Kevin.

I breathe in, and I can feel it in each of my limbs.

Kevin.

Hm. This is good. The dead weight of my own body starts to lift. The cloud of warm content starts to clear from my head. I feel purpose again. Need. Need to work. To be productive. That voice muddied it all into nothing. It’s clear again. Sharp. Need.

And Kevin. You’re back. At your desk. Not going through any more vortexes. I made sure you’d be safe, Kevin. Please don’t test that promise again.

It’s all normal again. The poster next to me still drips blood down onto the red-brown tiles. My brand still marks me as safe. Still stings when I touch it. Pain. Like normal. Like I’m supposed to feel.

And Kevin, reading his script. Like he’s supposed to. Safe.

And, somewhere out there, another voice. Another voice in another town that holds quite a bit of potential. New possibilities. Strex will want to know about that. I’ll have to tell them. I’ll have to remember that.

Night Vale.

Hm.

_“We are home, all of us, together. My mouth, your ears. We have each other. And, as always:_

_Until next time, Desert Bluffs. Until next time.”_

**  
**  
**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, when the show goes High Concept, I have to follow. Readers, meet Desert Bluffs Carlos! I know people have very different headcanons for this character (or lack thereof), so I didn't specify too much. I'm not specifically trying to emulate any of the established DB!Carlos characters that already exist in the fandom, I was just focused on making a character to complement and contrast the Carlos of this fic as effectively as possible. I hope you find and enjoy some of the parallels.  
> Once again, thanks for sticking with me through an experiment in Extreme Meta, and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming next chapter. =)


	21. Oh, I can't wait anymore, listeners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty: "Poetry Week"

_“Poetry Week has to be the most wonderful time of the year!”_

I hate poetry.

I am not good at writing.

Let me stop. Haiku.

I swear, if someone had given me a calendar of Night Vale holidays before I moved here, I wouldn’t have. I’d be somewhere else, in some other town, doing some other science, and _not_ writing poems.

Ever.

Not ever.

Never writing poems.

I don’t _hate_ poetry. It’s… it’s a thing. I get it.

I think I get it?

I don’t dislike reading poetry. It’s not usually on the top of my to-do list, but. It’s… yeah. It’s a thing. I have no strong feelings about reading poetry, one way or the other.

But _writing_ poetry?

Leave me here to die.

I assumed it was a joke.

Well, not a joke. Night Vale doesn’t really do ‘jokes’ like that.

But I assumed it wasn’t quite…

This.

A suggestion. A… tradition? Something you _can_ do, but not something you _have_ to do. Like any other holiday. There are things you’re culturally _supposed_ to do, but no one really cares if you do them or not. You’re _supposed_ to eat a bunch of food on Thanksgiving. You’re _supposed_ to drink eggnog at Christmas. You’re _supposed_ to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.

I mean, not here. But everywhere else, yeah. Those things.

No one really cares if you don’t do them. Some people might care a little, but it’s not… a thing.

This is a thing.

This is a horrible fucking thing.

Cecil’s been ramping up to Poetry Week basically all of last month. I knew it was coming. I knew what it was. Writing poetry. Not much to get. I thought I understood. I assumed it was something like those programs in elementary school, where you don’t watch tv for a week and they give you pizza for it. A fun suggestion. A town-wide idea. A vague concept. I thought I was ready for it.

There was a pencil on my nightstand when I woke up this morning.

A freshly sharpened, pristine, number 2 pencil, with an eraser that actually works.

I wish that had concerned me a little more than it did.

I just put it in my breast pocket, next to all of my illegal pens, and went about my day. Completely unconcerned about the visit from the Pencil Fairy.

When I opened the door to go down to the lab, there was a member of Sheriff’s Secret Police.

Right there.

Right fucking there, an inch away from my door.

In my defense, I only yelped a _little_ bit.

And they were just… waiting.

Because I hadn’t turned in any poems yet. I’d been awake for almost half an hour, and I hadn’t turned in any poems yet.

They wouldn’t leave. Until I turned in my poems. They gave me one of those tiny spiral notebooks. And waited.

Literally stood there in my doorway and stared at me and waited for me to write a poem before they let me leave the house.

Even my worst nightmares have never been so horrible.

My palms sweat just thinking about it. I shiver, trying to shake off the memory like a dog shaking off water. I stick out my tongue, trying to get the bitter taste of embarrassment and failure out of my mouth.

I wrote down ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’.

Because it’s a Lyric Poem.

They never said it had to be _original_ poetry.

I pointed that out to the Officer when they gave me that look. That fucking judgmental look. That ‘Really? This is the _best_ you can do? You equate this with _real poetry_?’ look.

You force a Scientist with absolutely no literary training to write a poem on demand before letting him leave the house?

You can fucking deal with what you’re given.

When I got downstairs, the lab was empty.

Which, I suppose, isn’t all that surprising, in retrospect.

Everyone’s writing poems. Rochelle stopped by for a minute to water her Ficus Flytraps, but even then, she barely took her eyes off of the notebook balanced on her forearm. I don’t know where _enthusiastic_ poets send their work, but I’m assuming that’s where everyone is. Writing non-stop.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in a state of constant stress, googling different forms of poem, waiting for the next visit from the Officer. They’ve shown up every half hour, standing in the doorway, tapping their foot impatiently until I hand them another piece of paper.

Even when I actually try to be artistic, they’re not impressed.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap stomp.

Oh my _god._

“I heard you,” I snap, trying to sound somewhat respectful of their authority, but without much patience left to do so.

I rip out the latest sheet in the tiny spiral notebook.

There once was a Scientist in Night Vale,

Who was forced to write poems, to no avail.

He then tried a Limerick,

It made him feel quite sick,

And he couldn’t think of another rhyme for ‘Night Vale’.

The Officer rolls their eyes (the only part of their face that’s visible).

“I don’t see _you_ writing anything better,” I point out, belatedly hoping that my sass doesn’t get me thrown into indefinite detention.

But the Officer seems appeased - if begrudgingly so - and stalks back out of the lab.

Another thirty minutes of peace.

Which, seriously, _thank god._

Why did Poetry Week have to start _today_ of all days?

There’s so much more important work to be doing today.

There’s _Science_ today.

Not just regular ‘ooohhhh quick figure out what this is before it kills us’ Science.

 _Science_ Science.

The tennis ball is sitting on my desk. Calm. Innocuous. Just a tennis ball, doing its thing.

If I found it at the entrance to the completely forbidden Dog Park, well, that’s for me and the tennis ball to know.

The gate was… a little bit ajar. I’ve never seen it open before. But it was open today. The tiniest bit. Just far enough for a tennis ball to roll out and hit my foot while I was taking a walk on my break.

The tennis ball was covered in a viscous liquid that I assumed was some sort of dog saliva. And sand. There was a lot of sand.

Simple enough. Right?

_Wrong._

I collected all the samples I could from the fibers, mostly because I don’t think I’ve ever actually _seen_ a dog here, and I was hoping a solid DNA sample might let me figure out what sort of breed it was.

But once it was completely cleaned off, the tennis ball shifted.

Exactly two inches to the right.

I tried to grab it.

It shifted.

Three inches _up._

Three inches off of the table.

Any time I try to touch it, it moves. Away from me. Just enough to keep me from getting a good grip on it.

It should be annoying, really.

Or interesting. I should be trying to figure out why it’s doing this.

But…

It’s too damn entertaining.

I reach to the left of the ball, like I’m going for the notebook. To see if I can trick it. I snatch toward the ball with my other hand.

It shifts, at least a foot and a half up off of the table. But it doesn’t stay there, like it’s done in the past. It drops.

I try to catch it.

It touches my palm, then shoots a few feet away from my desk.

I leap out of my chair (about as gracefully as can be expected), trying to block its trajectory.

It drops again, right into my palm, before rocketing across the lab.

I don’t even think twice before running after it.

Oh, wait.

Is this…

Is this… catch?

Am I playing catch?

Am I doing… sports?

Chasing after a tennis ball and trying to grab it before it can get away from me.

This must be what sports feels like.

The ball keeps soaring across the lab, and I keep chasing after it, jumping over chairs, sliding across desks, dodging equipment left and right. There’s sweat absolutely drenching my hair and my labcoat feels significantly damp. I can’t quite breathe. My lungs are burning. This is the most physical activity I’ve done since…

I can’t remember.

That’s probably not a great sign.

But this.

 _This_ is why I’m here.

This is why I came to Night Vale in the first place.

Science.

It’s been a while.

I mean, there’s nothing particularly scientific about chasing a tennis ball around the lab, but I’m going to make it Science in a minute. I’ll run tests on the saliva samples I collected earlier. I’ll figure out why this thing can move on its own. I’ll write all of it down.

This is just… an experiment.

A particularly enjoyable experiment.

Nothing wrong with that.

The ball suddenly appears in the drain of the sink in the corner. I race toward it, thinking it might have finally run out of energy (fuck knows _I_ certainly have). Of course, the second I reach for it, it pops out of the drain and zooms across the room.

It startles a laugh out of me.

Laughing in the lab.

That’s nice.

Tap.

Oh my god.

Tap.

Come _on._

Tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap stomp STOMP.

There’s _no way_ it’s been that long already.

“Give… second… just… quick…”

I’m wheezing. I’m covered in sweat. I definitely can’t breathe.

And I have to write a fucking poem.

I stumble over to my desk. I can hear the tennis ball bouncing gently on the floor a few feet away from me. It sounds like the impatient foot-tap of the Officer.

Yeah, you and me both, tennis ball.

I hate this. I hate

this. I hate this. I hate this.

I fucking hate this.

I double-check the syllables, rip out the paper, and practically shove it at the officer.

They look it over, shake their head, and _hand it back to me._

“Your haiku limit

has been exceeded today.

Please vary your form.”

I want to scream.

But I have to admit, that was impressive.

I pick up the notebook.

Poem-hating

Form-researching

Anxiety-having

Town-visiting

Science-doing

Work-interrupting

Kennings-writing

Carlos

I shove the paper in their hands. They read it quickly. Their eyebrow quirks.

It almost looks like… approval.

Maybe they’re just impressed that I took the time to google what the fuck a Kennings Poem is.

Either way, they nod slightly, and tuck the poem into the same pocket where they’ve stuffed the other ones.

“Thank you,” I say in my most magnanimously annoyed voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the tennis ball bounce across the table to my left, just begging for me to jump at it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some Very Important Science to do.”

_“And to the rest of you, goodbye too, but with the hint of a future hello. Stay tuned next for the sound of some helpless thing being eaten._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I had way too much fun writing this. That's why it's up so quickly after the last chapter. Carlos has been through a lot lately, so I thought it was about time Night Vale gave him a break and let him enjoy himself for a while (minus the whole 'poetry' thing, anyway). I know it doesn't play quite as heavily with the canon as previous chapters, but hopefully it's fun enough to make up for that. =)  
> I can't thank you enough for being such wonderful readers. I hear the most incredible things from you, and I'm so, so grateful.


	22. The Apache Tracker was described as a real jerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-one: "A Memory of Europe"

_“...just now. By me.”_

 

“Ha!”

Whoops. Finger almost slipped.

Definitely not a good thing when dissecting a spider. Particularly a spider of a completely unknown species.

Refocus… get a tighter grip on the scalpel…

Cecil, if you would just realize that I’m trying to _focus_ “and stop being so damn entertaining, that’d certainly be helpful. And… oh. Talking to myself again.”

Why is that happening so much today?

I’ve listened to Cecil’s show by myself before. I’ve even had the lab to myself during his show before. And I’ve never _once_ had the urge to strike up a constant dialogue with the radio. “Obviously. It’s not like the radio can _hear_ me.”

Actually…

Let’s not think about that.

This talking nonsense is probably something to do with the quarantine.

Because I don’t _really_ have the lab to myself. Everyone else is here. Right there. Right outside the plexiglass dome they trapped me under, “which was horrifically rude of them.”

I turn around, looking at my coworkers through my clear prison bubble. “ _Rude_ ,” I repeat, a little louder than necessary. But it doesn’t matter. They can’t hear me in here. And no one’s looking. They’re all going about their business, like a bunch of people who _didn’t_ just trap an innocent colleague in Science Jail.

I guess it’s understandable. I said ‘Unknown Species of Spider’ and they all heard ‘ _MOST DEFINITELY THROAT SPIDERS, PROTECT THE LAB AT ALL COSTS’_.

I didn’t even know there was a quarantine button on the thermostat.

Or how the dome knew to materialize around _my_ lab bench, and nowhere else.

But at least there’s decent ventilation in here. Hell, the air smells cleaner than the lab’s usually does. And I think it must be climate controlled. It’s pretty comfortable. A small toilet even materialized underneath my desk, but god knows I won’t be using _that,_ no matter how long I’m trapped in here.

Which…

No. I’m sure I won’t be in here for long. I’ll be able to prove that this _isn’t_ a throat spider, and they’ll hit some magic button to let me out.

At least, I hope this isn’t a throat spider.

I mean, I _really fucking hope_ this isn’t a throat spider.

Because from what I’ve gathered, Throat Spiders are about as common as the flu around here. Everyone gets hit at some point. And the spider on my desk is exactly six inches in diameter, “and if that’s how big throat spiders are, I am taking the next fucking bus out of this town and never coming back.”

 

_“Listeners, the coming of the first gentle winds of spring have brought me back to my college years, and to the late spring I spent backpacking through Europe.”_

 

Well…

Maybe I’d stick around for a little while.

“Focus. Unknown spider. Dissecting what appears to be a venom sac. Focus.”

But…

That’s kind of an amusing image, Cecil. You’re just so… _you_. It’s hard to picture you in Europe. I mean, you’re “one of the most _Night Vale_ -esque Night Valians in the whole town. It’s weird trying to picture you anywhere else. Wandering around a museum in France, in some place that’s so… _normal_ -”

 

_“I remember spending a wonderful period in the country of Svitz.”_

 

Wh-

Sv-

“Svitz… erland?”

_“Svitz, of course,”_

Probably should have seen that coming.

I don’t know why I’m even surprised.

Of course.

Nothing in Night Vale is normal. Dogs aren’t dogs, they’re Night Vale dogs. Houses are Night Vale houses. Everything is some warped Night Vale version of itself.

So, of course.

Of course Europe is Night Vale Europe.

I know my tolerance for scientific inaccuracy has grown exponentially over the past few months, but honestly. You have to draw a line _somewhere_. The beliefs of what exists and what doesn’t exist in this town are like a constant, biblically-scaled test of my willpower.

I mean…

Cecil. I already had to take you to a mountain “just to prove they’re a thing. Am I going to have to take you to _Europe_ now?”

Well…

Oh my god.

“Focus. Spider. _Focus_.”

There’s a knock on the plexiglass. I only jump a few inches, which would normally be impressive for me, except for this whole _spider thing_ , honestly people, what the fuck.

I turn around to see who thought it’d be fun to scare me into accidentally spraying myself with venom.

Oh. It’s Monica. I guess that’s okay then.

She asks how I’m doing. She looks vaguely sympathetic, like she might actually be somewhat sad that she was part of the decision to imprison me at my lab bench. It’s… well I suppose it’s a bit comforting.

But just a little bit. A very small little bit.

She’s taught me enough NVSL to be able to sign that I’m fine. But I make sure my face makes it seem _very_ begrudging.

She just points at her throat, and shrugs.

Yeah, I get it. Throat Spiders. Serves me right for bringing a possible disease into the lab like it’s no big deal. Though, in my defense, Throat Spiders hardly seem any more dangerous than any of the other shit we’ve dealt with here. Rochelle was running tests on an actual _bomb_ last week, and no one seemed to care, because ‘Volleyballs _always_ tick like that, calm down Carlos’.

Monica tells me she’ll check in again later. It’s a nice gesture, but it’s basically meaningless. It’s not like they’d suddenly let me out of I said I wasn’t enjoying it.

Alright, “back to the spider. I’m still not sure how I can prove that it _isn’t_ a Throat Spider, but might as well keep poking at it anyway, right?”

 

_“Returning now to my hazy, sepia-toned European memories.”_

 

Odds of it being _actual_ Europe this time?

Probably pretty slim.

 

 _“_ _Another country I recall, with great fondness of course, is the nation of Franchia.”_

 

Cecil.

If you keep talking like this, I’m going to have to take you to Europe. “Don’t make me take you to Europe, Cecil.” There’s only so much of this I can handle in one broadcast.

Oh.

The venom sac has been punctured. Did I do that? I mean, I probably did. I’m holding a scalpel right over the petri dish. There’s liquid oozing out of the spider and coating the very tip of the scalpel. “This is probably fine. Totally harmless. Totally fine. Yep. Nothing to worry about here. It’s probably not even venom. Probably just water. Totally fine.”

But let’s collect a sample anyway. For… reasons. Not dangerous reasons. Nope.

My stomach grumbles.

I check the clock.

I don’t know _why_ I check the clock. I thought that habit had been kicked by now. Clocks don’t work here. I _know_ clocks don’t work here. “I don’t know _why_ yet, but I know looking at a clock isn’t going to tell me anything.”

Out of sheer curiosity, I check the clock anyway.

According to the clock, I’ve been trapped in Science Jail for… fifteen minutes.

Oh my god.

I mean, seriously. “It’s been _at least_ three hours. At least. Three hours. I’ve missed lunch. My lunch is sitting in the break room, uneaten. Wondering why I’ve abandoned it.”

Maybe this spider will end up being edible.

 

_“Europe is not just about looking at monuments and licking monuments. It’s also about the people. One memorable interaction happened in-”_

 

Hang on, I’ve got this.

“Glagh...ens...burgh. Glaghensburgh.”

 

_“-the little Alpine country of Luftnarp.”_

 

Oh my god. Mine sounds _more realistic_.

Maybe just a _map_ of Europe will do the trick. A nice big one. Clearly labeled countries. “Bring it up casually. ‘Hey, Cecil, look at this map of Europe I just happened to find lying around. Look at it. Look at all the countries. Look at all the countries that are there. Look at the countries that _aren’t_ there. Isn’t that interesting?’”

He’d probably just say that he didn’t know I’m interested in cartography. He’d probably give me a collection of antique maps. He’d probably offer to take me to Luftnarp, because they probably have cool maps there.

And once again, I’ve lost focus of the spider.

Suddenly I have three separate vials of clear, slightly viscous liquid, and a completely deflated spider. And I have no idea how.

It’s like when you drive home on autopilot and don’t remember how you got there.

I’m on Science Autopilot.

On the bright side, I guess I’m on the way to liberating myself from my prison.

 

_“Big news in the Science world!”_

 

Uh…

Really?

Cecil, usually you get all of your science news from me. I haven’t told you anything recently. Did someone else in the lab talk to you? Usually they tell _me_ all their news, because they say you report it better when I’m the one who tells you about it.

 

_“Scientists announce that they have discovered the World’s Deadliest Spider, a previously unknown species that is as hard to spot as its bite is hard to survive.”_

 

That…

Ju-

B-

I glance down at the petri dish. That contains an unknown species of spider.

That’s…

That’s a funny coincidence…

 

_“Apparently the species was found when your dead body was examined.”_

 

Yeah.

Super strange coincidence.

I mean, I’m looking at this spider _now._ It hasn’t been discovered yet. I’m still working on that.

 

_“Oh. You know what? I’m sorry. This report is from next week. Ah, things have gotten so confusing ever since the wire service has started using time machines. Never mind. No need to worry about that report for a few days.”_

 

Well.

Alright then.

Fuck this.

Fuck everything.

Fuck this town.

Fuck me.

I push my chair away from my desk. I stand up, with the chair legs still tangled up in my feet. I turn around.

Everyone is looking at me.

No one is moving.

_No one is moving._

Okay.

Let’s handle this gently.

I pound against the plexiglass. Both fists. As hard as I can. They’re looking right at me. They heard that report. They know. They _know_. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.

Still, no one moves.

I throw out my arms, trying to articulate ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR????’ as clearly as possible.

They all look at each other.

Oh my god.

They can’t be serious.

I pound on the dome some more. I almost thought they were starting to like me, yet here we are. Should have known.

David finally moves. He goes over to the thermostat, and punches a few buttons on what I _thought_ was the temperature control.

A handle appears, right at eye level.

Monica rushes over, turning the handle like a floodgate. A tiny door opens right in front of me, barely big enough for a person to crawl through. But she helps pull me out, slamming the door closed behind me. The second it’s secured, David hits another button.

My entire lab bench fucking blows up.

The dome contains the explosion, and all I can do is watch as my chair shatters into tiny, fiery pieces that slam against the plexiglass.

All things considered, it could have been worse.

But still.

My favorite pen was in there.

“Sorry,” David says from over by the thermostat, “we couldn’t remember which one of us is the Emergency Fire Marshall. They’re the only one authorized to perform quarantine escapes.”

Right.

Obviously.

Still…

David hits a few more buttons, and the dome starts cleaning up the debris, no doubt making sure the Death Spider is no more. Monica adjusts the lapel of my labcoat, looking me over like she’s checking for injuries. Rochelle hands me a protein bar.

All in all, I guess it’s not that bad of a day.

“Thanks.”

 

_“We will always be in that most dangerous, most exciting, most possible time of all: the Now. Where we can never know what shape the next moment will take. Stay tuned next for, well… let’s just find out together, shall we?_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My unplanned Winter Hiatus is officially over! I certainly wasn't expecting to take a few months off, but it ended up being necessary. Now that that's done, updates will most likely be coming more regularly.  
> As always: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who reads this. Even when I disappear for a couple months, I still hear such wonderful things from my readers. You make this such an amazing writing experience for me.


	23. What we do know is this:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-two: "The Whispering Forest"

_“There is a whispering forest just outside of town, and it should not be approached under any circumstances.”_

 

Well gee, Cecil.

Thanks for telling me that _now._

I’m knee deep in the forest.

Literally. The soil is all the way up to my knees.

Good thing I don’t like these pants. Much.

In my defense, I wasn’t expecting the forest to be quite so… squishy. I’ve only been standing here for a few minutes, but I just… sank right in. Almost instantly. About an inch per minute, as far as I can guess without any real calculations.

I still don’t understand why they sent _me_ to look into the forest at all. I’m a Scientist. I don’t know anything about _trees_.

But since I came all the way out here (and it was quite a long way for a regular workday excursion), I figured I could at least get some soil samples. I know things about soil.

But with how eagerly this soil is trying to eat me, it looks like it’s trying to get a Carlos sample in retaliation. I guess that’s only fair. It seems light enough that I should be able to pull myself out pretty easily if I sink in too much further. God knows there are plenty of branches to grab onto for leverage.

Oh look. There’s moss climbing up my legs.

Great.

Just great.

Yet _another_ labcoat that I probably won’t be ever be able to get clean again. This one will probably end up permanently green.

Huh. I wonder if I have a full rainbow now. I think I’m just missing orange…

I fish for another test tube in my pocket. I’m sure there’s one that’s appropriately moss-sized here somewhere.

“Carlos?”

“Yeah?”

“Your hair looks just _great_ today!”

“Thanks, Cecil.”

Wait-

“Wait-”

What?

“What?”

I look around.

Because that wasn’t Cecil.

I’m listening to his show. I heard my name, and something nice about my hair. And my brain automatically processed those two variables as ‘Definitely Cecil’, but…

That definitely _wasn’t_ Cecil’s voice.

“Hello?”

I don’t see anyone.

“Hello!”

I _still_ don’t see anyone.

But I heard them. A small, cute voice. From right next to me. A tiny ‘hello’.

“Is someone there?”

Actually…

“Is some... _thing_ there?”

I still don’t fucking see anything but trees. And this time there’s no response.

“Hello?”

Just more silence.

Okay, I guess we’ll just ignore that.

That’s basically become my mantra these days. I should get it on a t-shirt.

It was probably nothing, anyway. Probably someone hanging out in the forest. Yeah. When I got here, there were a bunch of people right at the… sudden start of the forest. The line on the ground where it stops being desert and immediately becomes a super-dense evergreen forest. So, naturally, I drove all the way around to the complete _opposite_ side of the massive body of trees. Where there aren’t any people. I didn’t come to the woods to socialize, and I’m not about to compromise on that. I don’t want to _talk_ to anyone. I’m here for _Science_.

But I guess someone must have wandered all the way back here. Just because the world fucking hates me. They saw an expansive forest with (presumably) no sentient creatures in it and decided to ignore the _acres_ of available space and go _right to the one tiny spot where I am_.

And then… they hid behind a tree.

Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t see them.

Nothing strange about that. Nope. Just normal people in a normal forest of normal trees. Doing normal tree things.

I mean, probably. I don’t actually know what ‘normal tree things’ are.

I’m a scientist.

Moss sample. Right. Let’s do this.

I grab a putty knife from my breast pocket.

Why did I bring a putty knife?

I guess it works just fine. I reach down, using the knife to carefully scrape some of the moss off of my pants and into the test tube.

“Carlos, that is such a nice labcoat! It’s just _beautiful_!”

“Yeah, thanks, it’s-”

Wait-

“Who said that?”

I look around again, trying to check behind as many trees as possible without being able to move anything below my thighs (when did I sink so much further into the soil?).

I pull out my earbuds, tucking them into the pocket with my radio. Cecil’s gonna have to wait a minute.

Because it was that little tiny voice again.

“I know you’re there. I _heard_ you.”

Still just trees. Trees and trees and trees and more fucking trees.

“What kind of labcoat is that, Carlos? It fits you so well! Do you work out?”

The voice is right here. Right next to me.

But there’s just trees.

There’s just trees.

Trees, right next to me. The voice, right next to me.

That’s…

“The fabric looks so nice and soft. Is it comfortable?”

Trees.

The trees are…

“And just look at those lapels. It’s such a flattering cut! You look _swell_ today, Carlos.”

The trees are giving me compliments.

My eyebrows are furrowed so hard that it’s giving me a headache.

“Um,” I’m suddenly aware of how _human_ my voice sounds, “Yeah… thank you.”

Because they gave me some very nice compliments. And it’s polite to thank someone when they give you a compliment.

That’s something I’ve learned through strenuous repetition, since moving to Night Vale. I never used to be able to take a compliment. I’d turn all sorts of hideous shades of pink, sputter, produce either way too much saliva or nowhere near enough, and most importantly: desperately try to convince the person who complimented me how fucking wrong they were. When my mom told me my third grade science project was ‘Brilliant!’ I just said ‘No’.

Probably because I didn’t used to get compliments very often. Not big, noteworthy ones anyway.

But then I moved to Night Vale.

And you can only hear so many sonnets about your hair before it starts feeling rude to keep responding with ‘Sorry Cecil but actually no’.

The upside, I guess, is that I’m now _highly_ skilled at taking compliments. With the amount of practice I’ve had in the last eleven months, it’s hardly surprising.

“Carlos, your glasses look so cool!”

So I guess these trees are just gonna keep complimenting me.

That’s just… their thing. That’s what they do.

And that’s…

I mean…

That’s _probably_ not normal, right?

Trees don’t usually talk. Right. Obviously.

Right.

Obviously.

Right… ?

Goddammit, why didn’t they send someone who knows about trees? I can’t go back to the lab and say ‘Yeah, the trees were saying nice things about me, is that normal? Do trees do that?’

So we’re gonna… take this whole Super Friendly Tree… _thing_ in stride and… keep working. There’s still moss to collect. Tests to run. No big deal. No small deal, even. No deal at all. Just gathering samples. In a forest. A perfectly normal forest.

“Those glasses make you look _so smart_! You must be very smart, doing experiments all day with your beautiful labcoat and your beautiful glasses.”

I grit my teeth, focusing on scraping another sliver of moss off of my pants and into the test tube (I’m almost waist-deep in the soil now, when did _that_ happen?). “Thank you very much.” My voice sounds only _slightly_ forced and uncomfortable. “I really like these glasses too.”

My toe starts itching.

Of course it does.

Of course, now of all times, my toe starts itching. All the way in my shoe, buried under three feet of soil, my little toe has decided that _this_ is when it’d like me to remember that it exists.

And now I’m thinking about how much I want to scratch my toe, so naturally, my _other_ toes have all started itching too.

Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore itch. Ignore itch. Itch. Itch. Itch.

Oh my god.

Focus.

I cap off the moss sample and slide it into my breast pocket. I already have three different soil samples, all seemingly of very different compositions. And now some moss. That’s probably good, right? Probably enough for me to bring back to the lab. Probably enough for me to pull myself out of this fucking dirt and take off my shoes and scratch my feet until the damn things fall off. Right?

And now my shins itch too.

Poison Ivy? That’s a thing. There must be an irritant in this dirt. Great, I probably have a rash now. Yeah, it’s time to get the fuck out of this itchy-

Huh.

That’s not…

That’s not itchy anymore.

It’s… tickle… y. Tickley. It tickles.

The trees are flattering me and the soil is fucking tickling me. This forest is apparently a small child that _really_ wants to be my friend.

Yeah, it’s _definitely_ time to get out of here. Back to the lab. The lab where no one compliments me unless they’re a radio host and no one _tickles me,_ seriously, get me the fuck out of this forest.

I reach for the nearest branch. Luckily, there’s at least a dozen at arm’s length. It seems sturdy enough.

I have a brief flash of fear that the trees will think I’m flirting with them.

No other choice. I tug, trying to dislodge myself from the dirt.

“Carlos! Do you like doing experiments? We should do some experiments together!”

This must be my personal manifestation of Hell.

At least it wasn’t a compliment, so I don’t have to respond to it to be polite.

I tug harder. I shift, just a few centimeters, but it’s something. My feet can move again, so… let’s try climbing out of here, I guess.

“Carlos! You have such a nice voice, Carlos. I can’t believe I didn’t say so sooner, Carlos. Such a lovely, _lovely_ speaking voice!”

I laugh at that.

I actually _laugh_ at that, as I keep trying to wade out of the dirt. It’s a short, startled laugh. “Yeah, I’ve actually heard that before. ‘Oaky tones’.” I grab another branch, getting better leverage and freeing my left foot.

There’s a root wrapped around my ankle.

“ _Carlos!_ ” The root tugs at my ankle.

Okay, that’s terrifying.

“ _Carlos!_ ”

Jeez, forest, chill. You’re getting a little desperate.

I manage to disentangle my foot, shaking the dirt off of my other leg in the process. I’m almost out. Good, because the tickling is getting… friendlier.

“Carlos, your smile is so beautiful! Your teeth are-”

“Like a military cemetery, I know. Thanks.” I pull myself free, standing on a sturdy root so I can’t sink back in again.

There’s a clear path back to the desert. The sudden, definite, immediate line where the trees just… stop.

And it’s vast, endless, dusty, familiar, comforting desert.

Yes. Good.

Anything but trees.

I get out of the forest as quickly as possible, making sure to only step on roots and particularly solid-looking ground. The branches brush against me. More frequently than they probably should. The roots try to curl around my feet. I have to break into a run to keep them from getting my shoes.

“Carlos!”

I’m out. Back in the sudden shift to desert. The forest looks like a solid wall next to me. There are pine needles all over me. My labcoat is completely green.

“Carlos!” The voice is quieter now, like it’s coming from quite distance - even though I’m only a few inches away from the nearest tree. “Carlos… your hair looks nice!”

I laugh again. Loud this time. Because for some reason, it _is_ funny.

‘Your hair looks _nice_ ’. Nice.

Oh, right.

My radio is still in my pocket. I pull out my headphones. Cecil’s show isn’t over yet.

Good. I was afraid I’d missed hearing you, Cecil.

I missed hearing you, Cecil.

“ _Carlos!_ ” The forest yells, actually _yells_. “I said your hair looks nice!”

I smile. And give the trees a nice wave before I leave.

“Thanks, I get that a lot!”

 

_“Stay tuned next for the sound of a rapidly beating heart._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've made Carlos immune to the Whispering Forest because Cecil's compliments are so much nicer and more creative. I regret nothing.  
> I've been having major computer issues lately, so I haven't been able to respond to the comments I've gotten recently (here or elsewhere), but please know that I am IMMENSELY grateful to each and every one of you who gives any sort of feedback to this fic, even though I haven't been able to tell you so individually. My readers are all absolutely wonderful, and I am so thankful for all of you!


	24. How does a he-cat give birth?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-three: "Eternal Scouts"

_“Well, how does a he-cat hover in an immobile spot in a radio station bathroom? Some things just aren’t meant to be questioned. Most things, actually.”_

 

Yep.

Sure.

Absolutely.

Whatever you say, Cecil.

I’ve learned by now that that’s the easiest way to listen to your show. Even after almost a year in this town, sometimes it’s still easiest to listen to the news with a sort of bemused detachment.

Cat floating about four feet off the ground in a radio station bathroom?

Yep. Sure. Absolutely.

Cat previously assumed to lack both a uterus and a reproductive partner suddenly gives birth to a litter of floating kittens?

Yep. Sure. Absolutely.

This method may put a bit of a damper on scientific curiosity, but it definitely saves time.

Whatever you say, Cecil.

I mean… theoretically…

The cat would have at least shown _some_ signs of pregnancy, right? I can’t imagine Cecil wouldn’t have mentioned that at some point. I don’t understand how it went from ‘all cat things are normal’ to ‘entire gestation period is over; sudden kittens’. I suppose Cecil mentioned the cat gaining weight. But that was a while ago. When was that? Was that the only indication that something like this could-

Yep.

Sure.

Absolutely.

Whatever you say, Cecil.

You have to pick your scientific battles in this town. And this is a scientific battle for another time.

After all, I have bigger things to deal with today.

I’m working for the Sheriff’s Secret Police.

Not the lab. The lab isn’t working for them.

Just me.

Huh. Now that I think about it like that, it seems vaguely suspicious. Maybe I should be more worried about this.

I’m already a little worried.

It was exciting at first. They sent an email to my work account at 4:47 this morning, with no name in the sender line, and the subject line just saying: ‘SECRET!’

The email somehow managed to link to my alarm clock, which blared incessantly no matter how many times I tried to snooze, turn off, unplug, or violently destroy it with blunt force. It only shut up when I opened the email.

Which is how I found out about the food at the Ralph’s.

Or, more specifically: the food in the Hole in the Vacant Lot Out Back of the Ralph’s (the email was insistent about the capitalization).

Apparently, food has just been… materializing in the Hole in the Vacant Lot Out Back of the Ralph’s, or the HitVLOBotR for short, pronounced “hit-VLOH-boh-ter” for ease and consistency. Food has been materializing in the HitVLOBotR since midnight, apparently in oddly specific groupings. Groupings that looks suspiciously like grocery lists.

Naturally, by that point (roughly 4:51 a.m.), I’m smacking myself out of grogginess at the prospect of studying food that can just materialize out of thin air, seemingly for a specific purpose, but with no apparent means to do so, and no one taking responsibility - or even just taking advantage of a pit full of free food.

But because I was excited to study the food, and this town has a way of crapping all over your hopes and dreams, that’s _not_ what the Sheriff’s Secret Police want me to do.

I’m not studying the food.

The scientifically _fascinating_ food.

No.

My job is to find out who’s doing this.

Because apparently replying “Probably one of the people who go there to huddle????” wasn’t good enough for them. I need to find out _exactly_ who’s doing this.

I pointed out that without knowing _how_ the food is materializing, there’s no proof that there’s even a _who_ involved in the situation at all.

But that just made my battered alarm clock start blaring again until I apologized and agreed to look into it.

Needless to say, getting to the lab at 5:02 in the morning is _not_ my favorite thing in the world. Even if there was a pile of scientifically fascinating food waiting for me at my lab bench.

So I tried explaining to the Sheriff’s Secret Police (with the help of a few rather desperate emojis) that there was nothing I could do. That to be able to find any sort of pattern or clue, I’d need a list of every item that they’d found in the HitVLOBotR, and then a list of every single customer that had ever bought those items from the Ralph’s. And there’s no way a list like that could exist.

Sweet, foolish Carlos.

The pdf showed up on my laptop without me having to click on anything. Helpfully labeled “Every Purchase Made By Every Citizen at the Ralph’s”.

Obviously, a list like that is quite lengthy. The pdf needed some time to download.

I started the download at 5:14 a.m.

It’s currently 3:37 p.m.

The percentage downloaded, percentage remaining, and estimated time left are all listed in ancient runes.

Around noon I realized that what I _thought_ was the progress bar is actually a collage of pictures of birds.

A few hours ago, I gave up all hope on ever seeing the contents of this file, and I pulled out some slides I’d stored away, containing some shape-shifting fibers I found on the lapel of my labcoat the other day. I’d been waiting for some spare time to take a better look at them.

The moment I touched my microscope, it burst into flames.

So not only is the Sheriff’s Secret Policing forcing me to do what I’m pretty sure is _actually police work and not science at all_ , they’re literally _physically preventing me_ from doing anything else.

So I’ve been watching this file load.

For ten hours.

Ten.

Hours.

Watching a file load.

Not allowed to do anything else.

Hearing everyone else getting to do science behind me.

Ten.

Hours.

I thought I knew what boredom was. I was so young and naive then. Ah, yesterday. Simpler times.

When Cecil’s show started, I almost wept with relief.

Because they can’t keep me from listening to your show, Cecil.

I’ve become pretty certain that there’s literally no force in the universe that can keep a resident of Night Vale from hearing your show.

Of course, the only downside is-

No.

It’s not a downside. It’s not even a thing.

It’s just…

I haven’t listened to your show on my downtime in a while. It’s been a couple months, at least. I’m used to being so busy. To having your voice as a pleasant background noise that I only _occasionally_ feel the need to interact with.

Sitting here, being physically incapable of doing anything other than listen to you…

It’s becoming a bit of a strain.

Because you’re on the radio. And you’re talking. On the radio. At the station. Practically all the way across town. So you can talk as much as you want, and even though I can _hear_ all of it, I can’t say anything back. No matter how much I want to.

But obviously I don’t.

Want to.

Talk to you.

Don’t want to talk to you.

A lot.

All the time.

Nope.

Not at all.

It’s just those little things, you know? You know the things, Cecil. Sometimes you say something scientifically inaccurate, and it’s a natural impulse to want to give you a nudge in the right direction. I’m a Scientist. It’s a reflex. It’s just that. Or sometimes you say something so strange, something I’d never considered before. And I want to ask if you that’s, you know, a _thing_ here, a Night Vale thing, or if it’s just a Cecil thing. Just to make sure I’m keeping up with the culture and traditions of the town. To stay informed. Just that. Or sometimes you say something really funny, but no one else in the lab laughs. And I want to make sure you know what you said was funny, just in case you weren’t sure. Or sometimes you say something so goddamn adorable I feel like there’s a garbage compactor in my chest and I don’t really have anything to _say_ to that but you’re just so adorable I want to take your face and just _smush it, Cecil, I just want to take my hands and smush your stupid adorable face is that too goddamn much to ask-_

The pencil in my hand snaps in half.

When did I pick up a pencil?

I don’t use pencils.

Um…

I’ll just… set this down. Nicely. Make it look like it’s still in one piece.

Everything’s normal here.

Everything’s totally fine.

Totally casual.

Super chill.

No one thinking about any radio hosts and breaking pencils over here.

Nope.

_Super chill._

And even if I were a little bit… opposite-of-chill (what’s the opposite of chill? toasty? lightly-simmered?), it’s nothing to do with anything. Just the fact that I’ve been up since 4:47 this morning. And any time I try to get up to get coffee, my laptop growls at me. And the only mental stimulation I’ve had all day is this collage of bird pictures.

There’s a lot of pelicans.

Why so many pelicans?

I’m just sleepy. And bored. And under-caffeinated. And that odd combination of moods and chemicals and reactions is making me…

 

_“Oh, this is so exciting! What a wonderful little town we have!”_

 

Smiling.

Making me smiling.

It’s the sleepiness. Not the Cecil. The sleepiness is making me smiling. Not the Cecilness.

Stop smiling.

I can’t see my face, but I’m pretty sure it’s a stupid smile under unconvincingly angry eyebrows.

I’m not smiling because I’m listening to Cecil.

I’m not even thinking about Cecil.

Just sitting here, not thinking at all about Cecil. Look at me, thinking about all the other things that _aren’t_ Cecil. No one thinking about Ceec over here. No sir.

Does anyone call you Ceec?

It’s cute. It suits you. They should. They should call you Ceec. Why don’t they call you Ceec?

I should call you Ceec.

I’ve called you that before. But I should do it again, like, to your face.

Call you a cute little name to your cute little face-

The pencil in my hand snaps in half.

Okay…

Let’s keep my hands in pockets now.

I feel around my pockets. Making sure there aren’t any pencils.

And let’s think about something else. No Cecil at all.

Why would I think about Cecil, anyway?

Thinking about Cecil has always been a strange and vaguely unsettling thing. Always. From day one. From the first ‘perfect hair’ and the first ‘beautiful smile’ and the first ‘brilliant Carlos’ and ‘I fell in love instantly’. Thinking about that has always made me uncomfortable.

Always.

It definitely doesn’t make me feel a little…

Flattered.

Or.

Hopeful.

No. It doesn’t make me feel that at all.

Because of the line. Remember the line, Cecil? The one you yo-yo across all the time? The stalker/crush line? The one where I don’t know if you want to cover me in wax and put me in a museum or… if you just…

It’s that _line_ , Cecil. You know the line. I don’t know what your intentions are. I never have. Because one moment, you’re laughing at a bad pun I make when I call you about the next edition of the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner, and the next you’re…

You know…

Doing the things.

The weird things.

Like the freak out about my haircut. I mean, that was only… eleven months ago.

Eleven months. Definitely a current event.

I know you’ve apologized, and haven’t said anything since - except how much you still love my hair, even when it’s short.

But still… the line, Cecil.

You do those… weird, weird, inexplicable things. All the time.

You yo-yo over that line. I mean, the last time you did something that made me think you were a freaky stalker was…

Um…

Really recently. I’m sure.

The line, Cecil.

Weird stuff. All the time.

Sure, it’s been… a little while. A few months. Several months. Many, many months.

Sure, you’re on the ‘perfectly normal crush’ side of the line right now. And you have been for… a little while.

A few months.

But that’s…

Yeah.

You’ve been… really nice. And cute. And… respectful. That time when you thought it was a date, but it wasn’t. That time with the mountain, and you didn’t tell anyone. There are these boundaries now, that _definitely_ weren’t there when I first got here. And you’re respectful of them. And nice about them. And cute about them. And cute.

So… if there isn’t a ‘freaky stalker’ side of the line anymore, that’s means it’s just-

My laptop beeps. Probably the loudest beep I’ve ever heard in my life.

The pencil in my hand snaps in half.

‘FILE DOWNLOAD COMPLETE’

And the list opens up.

Right.

Work.

The food in the HitVLOBotR. And the list. The work. I have work to do. Good. I’ve been waiting for this all day. Good.

Good.

Good.

That’s what I want to be thinking about right now. Work.

There’s nothing else I want to think about right now.

Nope. Nothing.

The pencil in my hand snaps in half.

 

_“The present tense of regret is indecision. The future tense of fear is either comedy or tragedy. And the past tense of toast is toasted. Stay tuned now for more voices, more reassuring noise in this quiet world._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I wrote this chapter at work while waiting for a ridiculously large file to load. They say to write what you know.  
> As always, I give my sincerest thanks to every single person who reads this fic. Every chapter, I hear such wonderful things from my readers, and I'm so thrilled that you may be enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.


	25. There was a long, uncomfortable silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-four: "The Mayor"

_“...before Hidge said: ‘Well, I can’t do it with everyone watching. Turn around, okay?’ But then, before anyone could turn around, she vanished, leaving behind only a light white puff, like baby powder, a faint smell of olives, and an echoing voice that said: ‘No, wait, wait, I got it! See?’”_

 

Really?

_Really?_

Did that really-

Because if it did-

Then I just absolutely-

Wow.

I mean, _obviously_ I should look into that, right?

I push my feet against the floor, scooting the chair away from my desk. It shrieks. Part of it is just the sound of a chair against a tile floor, but part of it sounds alarmingly like _actual_ shrieking.

But that’s not important.

People are _disappearing_ and that’s important and I should deal with that right now so I’ll just go there right now yeah I’ll go to wherever that was and do some Science and all the things will be fine.

Yeah.

Great plan.

Just go do the things in the other place and be fine and be normal and everything’s fine nothing’s weird here why would anything be weird here it’s all totally fine.

Fine.

_Fine._

No one freaking out over here.

Nope.

Noooooooope.

So normal here. If any government agents were looking in the window next to my lab bench, they’d think “Wow! Carlos sure is being normal today! Look how calm and ordinary he is!”

A beaker slides off my desk. I wasn’t paying attention to my hands. One of them must have knocked a beaker off my desk when I wasn’t looking.

Instead of trying to catch it, I jump back, recoiling my hands up to my shoulders.

That’s probably the normal response.

The beaker hits the floor. I had hoped the radio would be loud enough to cover the crashing noise, but of course it isn’t.

I can hear everyone in the lab looking at me.

Yes. I can _hear_ the staring.

“Everything’s normal over here it’s totally fine.” My voice cracks twice.

I doubt anyone noticed.

I can hear them go back to their work. But they don’t sound very convincing.

The beaker was empty, which is at least something. The glass wasn’t shatter-proof, but it’s apparently pretty sturdy. It didn’t completely break, but there’s spider-web cracks running all over it.

I crouch down to pick it up.

I could have just bent over. Why did I crouch down?

Everything’s normal.

I’m more careful than I need to be as I pick up the beaker. Probably just to make sure I don’t cut myself. Very normal. Absolutely calm. My hands are _barely_ shaking.

I mean, they’re shaking enough that I immediately drop the beaker again.

But that’s totally normal.

It does break this time. Into what must be at least a million tiny pieces.

I’m very calm.

There are dustpans and little hand-brooms (hand-brooms? there’s probably a real word for that, a normal word; look into that) on almost every counter in the lab, for just this reason. I can reach the nearest one without even having to un-crouch (there’s probably a normal word for that too).

 

_“I myself am an aficionado of the theatre, having once played the role of Pippin in a high school production.”_

 

I make a sound that’s probably a laugh. One loud, half-formed, vaguely amused sound. A sort of "BAUGH!" sound. Very loud.

That’s fine.

That’s totally fine.

That’s totally normal.

“Everything’s fine.” Which was also very loud.

My legs are shaking. It’s probably easier to sit down. Just sit on the tile floor under my desk, the legs of my empty chair against my back. Hand-broom in my… hand. In front of the pile of shattered glass. To clean it up. Sitting cross-legged with a broom and a dustpan. Super normal.

Cecil did theatre in high school.

That’s fine.

That’s totally fine.

I don’t even have to give that a second thought.

Certainly not any thoughts about how _goddamn fucking adorable that must have been_.

No thoughts like that.

None at all.

Everything’s normal.

I definitely don’t need to think about that again.

I definitely don’t need to think about anything again.

Certainly not _the_ thing.

Certainly not the thing that I don’t need to think about.

The thing in my pocket.

The thing that is currently in my pocket. Right now. Just… there. In my pocket. Sitting there. Right within reach. The thing.

That I don’t need to think about.

Definitely don’t need to think about it.

Or look at it.

Don’t need to do that.

Don’t need to think about the thing that’s…

Not in my pocket anymore. It’s in my hand now. I’ve put down the dustpan and the hand-broom (brush? is that any better?), and I’ve taken it out of my pocket.

But I still don’t need to think about it.

Definitely don’t need to read it.

Nope.

I definitely do not need to read the card in my hand.

I mean, I already know what it looks like. I know what it says. And I don’t need to read it. Or look at it. Or think about it.

‘SAVE THE DATE!’

Don’t need to think about it.

‘You are cordially invited to a reception at the Night Vale Community Radio Station’

Don’t need to think about it.

‘To celebrate the one year anniversary’

Don’t need to think about it.

‘Of the arrival of Carlos the Scientist to our town!’

Don’t need to think about it.

At all.

Don’t need to think about the nice, typed lettering. Oddly formal, like these cards were designed for something much fancier than this. A little matching envelope. My name written on the envelope in tasteful calligraphy.

Don’t need to think about that.

Or the note that came with it. Tucked behind the card. Handwritten on a piece of memo paper with the NVCR letterhead. I definitely don’t need to read that. Again.

‘Carlos,

It’s just a little party. I know this seems a touch dramatic, but I simply couldn’t resist these invitations! They’re so lovely. Did you see the gold leaf on the envelope? _Lovely._

I hope this isn’t too much. It truly is just a simple, small party, nothing more. If that’s anything less than ideal to you, let me know, and I’ll change the plans. I want to celebrate, however you’d like.

-Cecil’

Yep.

Definitely don’t need to think about any of… that. None of it. None of those things.

I have Science to be doing. Important Science. I’m a Scientist.

I’ve been waiting for these reports on the seismic activity beneath Lane 5 at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex for _weeks_.

Fuck, that’s a mouthful. I need to abbreviate it. Acronym.

I can’t remember any of the letters in those words. I can’t remember the words. I can’t focus.

The Lane at the Place. Good enough.

I have the reports on the stuff from the Lane at the Place. I need to Science them. It’s been weeks. Hell, I’ve had my eye on this situation for… fuck… months? Since… maybe since I got here? Which was almost a year ago. It’ll be a year in just a couple weeks.

Not that I’m counting.

Not that I have to count.

Because there’s this card in my hand that’s telling me exactly when my one year anniversary will be. And it’s inviting me to go to a party to celebrate that. And my colleagues all have invitations. Because Cecil invited them. Because Cecil invited all of us. So it’ll be a party at the radio station with my colleagues and Cecil and even though my colleagues aren’t really _friends_ yet they’re _friendly_ enough that a party actually sounds fun and I actually really want to go. And it’ll be me and my colleagues and Cecil and me and Cecil and I’ll be there and Cecil will be there at this party and it’s the perfect opportunity to ask him on a date so I’m gonna go to the party and ask Cecil on a date I’m gonna ask Cecil to go on a date with me I’m gonna ask him I’m gonna vomit I’m gonna vomit oh my god I’m gonna vomit.

My hands are shaking so bad that they’re starting to compromise the structural integrity of the invitation’s sturdy cardstock.

I make myself set the card on the floor. Because I’m still sitting under my desk. Totally normal.

A little party. Because I’ve been here for a year, which is a significant and easily-celebrated period of time. An established social gathering. With the small group of people in this town that I really do enjoy. It’ll be fun. Snacks. And drinks. And talking. And Cecil.

Cecil.

It’ll be a fun party, with plenty of opportunity for socializing. Which means it’ll be so easy to find a couple moments to talk privately with Cecil. Maybe by the punch bowl that they might have. Maybe after everything’s wound down and we’re getting our coats and we happen to be the only two people in the coat room. So many hypothetical opportunities. ‘Hey, Cecil, would you maybe like to go out with me sometime?’ How long did that take? Can’t have been more than four seconds. _Four seconds_ , that’s it. That’s all it’ll take. Four seconds of privacy, twelve words (that I’ve rehearsed in my brain more than I’m comfortable admitting to myself), and that’s it. Easy. Simple.

And, best of all, it’s a party.

So if he… if the answer isn’t…

Then we’re at a party.

And we can just sort of… dissolve. Into opposite corners. And continue to party in non-adjacent spaces. And not make any eye contact. And not speak to each other. No awkwardness. Just a continuation of the social gathering, with less one-on-one time. The perfect fallback.

If he doesn’t…

Which, I mean, he probably doesn’t.

Because the _moment_ I started thinking about this in terms of something real that could really happen, I realized that it isn’t, and won’t.

I’ve misread the whole thing. I’m sure of it.

I thought Cecil was respecting my boundaries. Not showing any sort of non-platonic interest in me because I had expressed discomfort.

But the much easier explanation is that he isn’t displaying any non-platonic interest in me lately because he _doesn’t have any non-platonic interest in me lately._

It’s been a year.

An entire year (almost).

A year of me telling him I’m uncomfortable. And I don’t want him to say things like that. And I don’t want him to think things like that.

So now, he doesn’t.

Why would I think he’d sit around for a year and wait for me to get my shit together? He thought I asked him on a date _months_ ago, and I told him it absolutely wasn’t a date. Why would he accept that and still hold out for the next chance?

He’s probably moved on. Let all affectionate feelings for me dull into background noise. He’s probably found someone else. After all, this is _Cecil_. He has to know he can do better than me in the first place. Cecil is probably dating someone, and he just hasn’t mentioned it. And he’s probably taller than me and more rugged than me and prettier than me and better at science than me.

I’m gonna vomit.

It’s been awhile since my last bout of stress-induced heartburn. Hello, old friend. The combination makes me feel like I could vomit acid all over the floor.

But I won’t. Because it’d get on the invitation.

To the party.

The party where I’m going to ask Cecil to go on a date.

With me.

To dinner. Because we get coffee. We’ve gotten coffee quite a few times. It’s where I talk to him about science. Ask him about the town, give him info for the Science Corner. Coffee is already a thing. A very platonic thing.

But dinner. Dinner has connotations. Mood lighting. Tablecloths. Fancy clothes. Maybe some nice wine. Asking if they want dessert, knowing you’re _actually_ asking if they’re having a good enough time to stay a second longer. Arguing over who pays the check. Driving home. These things are associated with Dinner, not Coffee. Dinner. All the things that are implicitly included with Dinner.

I can handle all those things. I can do all those things. I can do all those things with Cecil.

I want to do all those things with Cecil.

And the party is the perfect chance to ask him.

And I’m going to ask him.

Or.

I suppose I could stay under my desk and vomit acid reflux all over this pile of broken glass that I still haven’t cleaned up. I could live down here now. Never leave.

How long have I been under my desk?

I should probably get up.

Look at the reports from the Lane at the Place. The city underneath Lane 5. Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.

DFBAaAFC.

DufBaaaaaaaaahFuck.

The city underneath the DufBaaaaaaaaahFuck.

My hands are still shaking. But just a little. There’s still acid crawling up my throat. But I have antiacid tablets upstairs, in my silverware drawer, since I don’t have a medicine cabinet.

I can do this.

I can clean up this broken glass. I can get out from under my desk. I can take something to stop this heartburn. I can look at these reports. I can figure out what’s going on in the city under Lane 5. I can go to a party. And I can ask Cecil to get dinner with me. Like a date. Exactly like a date.

Yeah. I can do this.

What could go wrong?

 

_“_ _Each day that is, is a blessing, Night Vale. And now, stay tuned next for the popular radio game show: ‘Wait, Wait, Don’t! No, Don’t! Please, Don’t!’_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: My sincere apologies to everyone who sees "Chapter 25" and gets excited because "One Year Later". Believe me, no one is more disappointed than I am that "The Sandstorm" two-parter threw off my chapter numbers. But don't worry, we're almost there!  
> Second of all: WOW, you guys. I got SO MUCH amazing feedback for the last chapter! It was equally amazing and unexpected, and I loved every word of it. I especially love how so much of it seemed to be support for Carlos finally getting his shit together!  
> Last of all: Thank you to each and every one of you who reads this. It's been an amazing experience so far, and I can't tell you how excited I am to be reaching this part of the story, particularly with so many amazing readers here with me.


	26. 'I just wanted to see you'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-five: "One Year Later"

_“My heart leapt. My heart soared. My heart metaphorically performed a number of aerial activities and literally it began to beat hard.”_

 

I laugh a little.

Which was a mistake.

The movement tugs at the stitches below my ribs. Not hard enough to tear anything, but enough to hurt like a fucking fuck.

I recline my chair a bit more. I’m still mostly upright, but lying back a bit makes everything ache a little less.

Lying back a bit makes it all… nice.

Lying back, reclined in the driver’s seat of my car, in the Arby’s parking lot, looking up at the lights through the open sunroof, listening to Cecil on the radio.

Listening to Cecil.

Listening to Cecil tell everyone what just happened.

I’ve heard Cecil say my words on the air before, but this…

Well.

He said exactly what I said to him. Quoted me directly. Normally hearing my own words on the radio makes me feel stupid. Like I should have thought through my sentences more carefully before saying them. Worked on the structure, the rhythm, the phrasing. Hearing Cecil’s words - which are so beautiful and careful and poetic - and then hearing mine right after, it always made them seem clunky in comparison.

But this sounded… alright.

Good.

I said exactly what I wanted to say.

I wanted to see you, Cecil.

And told you that.

My voice didn’t even crack.

I just wanted to see you.

And I did. I saw you.

It’s that simple. One year later, and it ends up being that simple.

 

_“‘Sometimes things seem so strange, or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure, and innocent.’”_

 

Simple.

Would have been nice if I had made that realization a few weeks ago, but. I got there eventually.

It also would have been nice if I had made that realization without the gentle emotional nudge of a near-death experience, but. No one’s perfect.

That’s not quite true, anyway.

I didn’t ask to see you just because I almost died, Cecil.

Well, that was part of it. But not like that.

It didn’t take a brush with death to make me want to see you. Or to make me admit that I want to see you.

But it did make me want to see you right away.

Because the radio’s always on, Cecil. Everywhere.

So it was on at the bowling alley.

And even though there was a lot of commotion, and I wasn’t exactly spending the bulk of my energy on focusing on your show, I still heard…

I wanted to see you. Because I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see that I’m fine. A little torn in places. Patched in others. Sore in all of them. But in a strict sense of the word, I’m fine. I’m alive. I thought you might want to see that. For yourself. I thought it might… help. I don’t know if it did, but I thought it was worth trying.

You did seem happy to see me.

I mean, after you seemed _horrified_ to see me.

Because you realized that I can feel pain. I guess you weren’t sure of that before? Because you saw me and knew I was in pain. And you were _horrified_.

Which was an overreaction. It’s not that bad, Cecil. I only have three visible bandages. Not even big, intimidating, gauzy ones, like the one covering my stitches, hidden under my shirt. Just little bandaids. Just three little bandaids, and some places that are probably already starting to show bruising. I took off my labcoat (which is covered in so much blood that I’ll probably have to throw it away), and changed into the spare shirt I keep in my glove compartment. So you couldn’t see any tearing, or any blood. I look alright, Cecil. Probably kind of shaken, but fine.

And still, you looked _horrified._

But also… relieved.

And that’s what I was hoping.

 

_“‘I know what you mean,’ I replied.”_

 

Simple.

One year later.

An entire year. Of haircuts and phone calls and Science Corners and coffees and mountains and misunderstandings and yo-yoing over lines and… that’s all it comes down to.

‘I just wanted to see you.’

‘I know what you mean.’

I’ve spent three hundred and sixty-five days in this town, not knowing what anything means. Not knowing how any of it works. Understanding nothing, and no one. I’ve accepted that by now. Because that’s why I’m here. I’m here to figure it all out, or at least figure _some_ of it out. If I understood everything in Night Vale, there wouldn’t be any science left for me to do. Understanding everything in this town is the last thing that I want.

But after a year (or however long it’s _actually_ been, what with time being the least understandable thing here) of not understanding anything, not knowing anything for sure, it’s nice.

I haven’t been certain about anything since I got here, Cecil.

But I’m certain about this.

Everything I find out here still comes with a disclaimer: it’s Night Vale, so this is what I _think_ is happening, but it could be something else, I’m not completely confident.

But I’m confident about this.

Not necessarily this… whatever this is. This you-and-me _thing,_ Cecil. I’m not confident about how this will play out. I don’t have a romantic history that instills confidence. Judging by precedent and the few facts that I have on the subject, the more reasonable hypothesis would be that this whole thing is going to crash and burn, in a fairly spectacular fashion. It doesn’t feel defatest to say that. It just feels… realistic. Honest. I’m honestly not sure that this will work out. I’m not certain that this will go well.

But I’m certain that I want to try.

It’s the first certainty I’ve had since I got here, Cecil.

Do you know that?

‘I know what you mean.’

Why didn’t I know it would be that easy?

It would have saved me a lot of trouble.

And a few stitches.

Well, that’s not _quite_ fair. I know myself. I still would have gone to that city.

That tiny, stupid little city.

That tiny fucking city.

It’s not _my_ fault that I figured it out on the same day as Cecil’s party. I’ve been keeping that city on my radar since day one. It was an entirely unfortunate coincidence that I figured it out less than half an hour before Cecil’s party started. I’m completely blameless in that.

But, that being said…

If I’m being completely objective, and honest, I _do_ have to admit that the looming figure of Cecil’s party (and specifically my _plan_ for Cecil’s party) in the distance was the thing that made me decide that the city needed to be looked into right away. I could have waited. I really could have. I could have left the reports on my desk, gone to the party, and _then_ gone to the bowling alley. The reports weren’t urgent. The bowling alley is open pretty late. I knew what was happening, and I knew it wasn’t happening _immediately_. I could have waited.

But thinking about Cecil’s party, thinking about what I was going to _do_ at Cecil’s party, thinking about how I’ve spent the last two weeks ceaselessly preparing myself to ask Cecil out at said party… it was just enough of a panic-inducer to make me take the first excuse to keep myself _away_ from the party and run with it.

Run with it right into a tiny little city.

Run with it right into a tiny fucking warzone.

So I wouldn’t have to go to the party right away. The party where I was going to ask Cecil on a date.

I know I get panicky with parties. I _know_ that. I know how long I spend worrying about my outfit, and figuring out when to get there so I’m definitely not the first person there but not late enough that I need an excuse for why I’m late. I know how long I sit in the car outside the party and wait to make sure I recognize one of the other cars there. I know parties interfere with my rational thinking and replace reason with anxiety.

I should have known that any idea I had on the day of such an important party was probably a really fucking stupid one.

Fuck, regardless of any party-going or Cecil-asking, I should have known that traipsing my proportionally giant body into a city that’s in war-mode is a _fucking bad idea. It’s a bad idea, Carlos, how did you not realize that???_

But I knew it’d give me an excuse to be late to the party. I knew it’d give me a few extra minutes to prepare myself. To calm down. To work up the courage.

Bouts of panic have made me do some pretty stupid shit in the past, but this is my magnum opus.

I could have just left the reports on my desk. Gone to the party. Seen Cecil. Had some snacks with my coworkers.

And at some point during the night, I could have told Cecil, “I wanted to see you.”

And he would have understood.

That’s all it had to be.

Simple.

I suppose by now I should be used to things not following the smoothest trajectory around here. That you have to accept a few tiny projectiles and explosives before you get to sit in the Arby’s parking lot and look up at the lights.

I don’t think we’ve ever touched before, Cecil.

I mean, I’m pretty sure I shook your hand when we met. It seems like something I’d do. I was being introduced to so many people, and shaking hands is a polite thing to do. But to be honest, I don’t remember.

You probably do. I should ask you.

But since then. Apart from that. We’ve never really touched. Some little things here and there, yeah. Handing off business cards and napkins and passing the sugar at the coffee shop. Bumping shoulders in narrow doorways. Reaching for the picnic basket at the same time, at the foot of the mountain. But that’s not really the same.

Not the same as having my hand on your knee. Feeling your head against my shoulder. Before that, when you sat down next to me, you left space between us. Not much, sure. But enough. You weren't putting yourself in my space. In case I didn’t want that. Being respectful of my boundaries.

How long have you been doing that, with me not noticing?

I could have done more, I’m sure. Held your hand. Put my arm around you. Hell, I could have covered it with a yawn and a stretch like a teenager at a movie theater, and you still would have been thrilled.

I know it wasn’t much, just my hand on your knee. But it was so nice, Cecil. Such a small point of contact, but still more than I’ve had since I got here. Longer than that, even. Years, probably. Just my thumb stroking against the fabric of your pants. It was so soft. What was it? I’ll have to ask. And your head on my shoulder. I could smell you. Touch and smell. Two new senses.

I was so disappointed when you had to go.

But I knew you did. You had to. The weather was going to end. I bet you would have stayed there with me all night. I would have too. But it wasn’t worth it, I know that. Station Management is already going to be pissed that you left your studio during a broadcast. It was disappointing, but necessary.

Besides, there are plenty more evenings. To sit and look at the lights.

I wanted to make sure you knew that. But I didn’t know how. Standing next to the car, having just said goodbye, not moving away yet.

The moment was _screaming_ for a kiss. I could feel it. I could feel you feeling it.

And I just couldn’t.

I’m sorry, Cecil, if you were hoping. But everything got fast and urgent and terrifying all over again and I just… couldn’t.

So I took your hand instead. That’s it. That’s all I could do. I gave it a little squeeze. I was hoping it would communicate how much I didn’t want you to go, but in retrospect, I’m pretty sure it just communicated a desire to break your fingers. It was probably too much.

But you smiled. And squeezed my hand back.

And left.

Well, _started_ to leave.

Then you stuck your head out of your car window, and asked if you could say what had happened. If it was alright to tell this story on the radio. You made sure I was okay with that.

And yeah, I am. I don’t really know why, but I am.

And I said I was going to stay here for a bit. I tried to make it seem like I just wanted to chill in an Arby’s parking lot like it’s no big deal. I didn’t want to admit that it’s because one of those tiny fuckers got me right in the foot and I’m not actually sure I can drive home. I had to use my left foot on the pedals to get here.

You asked to tell this story, Cecil. And you started to drive off again. And then you stopped _again._ Because you forgot something. There was something in the car that you wanted to give me.

I glance down, at the trophy in my hands.

‘WORLD’S #1’ and then something that’s been covered up. I don’t know what it was. But it was covered over, and redrawn, in Cecil’s distinctive handwriting. ‘Scientist’.

‘WORLD’S #1 Scientist’

I’m smiling so much that my face is starting to ache.

Then again, that might just be the scrape across my cheek.

And the bruise under my eye.

Then again, maybe not.

Do I have a mantlepiece? I don’t have a fireplace, so probably not. But there’s got to be a shelf somewhere, right? A nice spot in my living room. Visible when you come in the door. I haven’t decorated yet. It’s been a year, and I still don’t have anything on display.

I think it’s a good time to change that.

I think it’s a good time to change a lot of things.

It only took me a year to realize it.

 

_“We understand the lights. We understand the lights above the Arby’s. We understand so much. But the sky behind those lights - mostly void, partially stars? That sky reminds us we don’t understand even more._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. We've reached the episodes that made me want to start writing this fic in the first place. I've been planning them and building them up for almost two years now, and I hope they'll live up to expectations.  
> As always, thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who reads this fic. I've loved writing it so much, but the responses I get make me love it more than I thought I could. <3


	27. Maybe you've never noticed any of those things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-six: "Faceless Old Woman"

_“You’ve lived your whole life to this point completely oblivious to this old woman who has no face. And truth be told, I think she’s probably harmless. But maybe you shouldn’t sleep in your home anymore, just in case.”_

 

Awesome.

Super awesome.

Excellent.

As a matter of fact, Cecil, I was _not_ aware that there’s a Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in my home.

And you know what, Cecil?

I didn’t _need_ to be aware of that. I was perfectly happy living in blissful ignorance, sleeping happily in the imagined safety of my bedroom.

Casually being watched by an invisible old woman.

Yeah, that’s pretty high on the list of things I never wanted to know, Ceec.

I suppose she might be a pleasant, elderly, grandmother-type woman who wants to pinch my cheeks and bake me cookies when I have a bad day.

But, this is Night Vale.

How long has she been there? Does she respect a certain base-level of privacy?

Oh my god.

I’m gonna have to start showering in my underwear, aren’t I?

I accidentally catch my finger in the clip of my visitor badge. It makes my hand jolt. Which makes me spill scalding hot liquid on my wrist.

Awesome.

Super awesome.

Excellent.

“Fuck.”

There’s a bit of a ledge on the window of the break room. It’s big enough to set down the cup, which will at least prevent any more spills. I wipe my hand on my labcoat, though the damage is already done. There’s a bright red blotch on my wrist. But it doesn’t look too bad. I’ll run it under some cold water later.

Or wait, is that what you’re supposed to do with burns? Does cold water make it worse? I can’t remember.

Calm down, Carlos. It’s not a fucking burn. It’s a drop of spilled tea. You’re fine.

I clip the visitor badge on my lapel - which is a more traditional and less painful place than my fucking finger.

Wait, it’s not _the_ visitor badge.

It’s _my_ visitor badge.

I can’t remember which intern did it. It’s been a while, and they tend to switch out with unsettling frequency…

But one of the old interns did it. I come here often enough. I have to wear a NVCR visitor badge often enough. I guess it makes sense.

It makes sense to take one of the badges that says ‘VISITOR’ on the laminated surface, and hunt down an illegal sharpie, and write ‘SCIENCE’ on it.

‘SCIENCE VISITOR’

That’s me.

I pick up the cup of tea again, this time making sure the lid is carefully secured. Time to get moving. It feels weird to loiter around the station break room. Besides, I’m only a few doors from…

 

_“She met the Man in the Tan Jacket, who has been haunting this city for the past few months. In fact, Dana says the Man in the Tan Jacket_ is quite nice, and they’ve really struck up quite a friendship.”

 

Oh.

The booth is soundproof, of course, but there’s a live feed playing the hallway. And there's a window.

I usually don’t go to the booth. When I come here to give you any scientific updates, I usually wait in the lobby, or maybe in the hallway by the bathrooms, where there’s a surprisingly comfy chair. I wait for you to finish the broadcast, and come out to meet me. Sometimes you meet me during the weather, if there’s time.

But today, I thought it might be fun to surprise you.

And…

 

“Every time she steps away from that guy, she can’t remember a thing about him, just that he’s wearing a tan jacket, and carrying a deerskin briefcase. Oh, and that briefcase is kind of weird, Dana says, because it’s full of flies.”

 

Wow.

I’ve never seen you on the air before. I’ve never watched you while you broadcast.

I mean, technically I’m still hearing the radio feed, not your actual, live voice. But I can see you through the window. And hear you talking at the same time. It doesn’t feel like the radio anymore. It feels like I’m just watching you talk.

And…

Yeah.

Wow.

I know you’ve been doing this for a while (a _long_ while? possibly an unnaturally long while?), so it shouldn’t surprise me. But it really does just look… right. You’re focused on your notes - or your script, whichever it is for this segment - and everything about it screams ‘ _Professionalism!!!’_ but at the same time… you look so calm. Even the outrageously giant headphones look natural on you. You’re leaning in toward the microphone, but you don’t look hunched or bent or uncomfortable. You look… invested. Interested. You’re holding the papers in one hand, and the other is sort of… swishing a bit. Back and forth, sometimes just a flick of a finger, sometimes a full-armed gesture. Constant motion that matches the cadence of your words. I wonder if that’s a radio thing, something to keep your sentences flowing and natural.

It might just be you. Your voice has always been like music. I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that your body is like a dance.

Whatever it is, it’s beautiful. I could watch this all day.

I shouldn’t. And won’t. But I could.

You’re focused enough that you still haven’t noticed me. Which is good. That’s what I wanted. I wanted to sneak a glimpse of you while you’re working, just for scientific curiosity. I don’t want to get your attention until the weather, when we can talk.

I haven’t seen you in a while, Cecil.

It’s a little…

I mean, it makes sense. Both of our work schedules are ridiculous. And I was out of commission for a few days, letting the worst of my injuries heal (and basically sleeping for thirty-six solid hours). We never used to see each other terribly often anyway.

It’s just that after what happened… after the parking lot… we _really_ haven’t seen each other much at all.

And it’s a little anticlimactic.

I wasn’t really _expecting_ anything different. We both put work first. We know that. I didn’t expect that to change. And with the whole ‘war with a tiny underground city’ thing, _both_ of our jobs have gotten even busier.

And yeah, the ‘don’t leave your apartment until your body isn’t completely useless anymore, for fuck’s sake Carlos you almost _died'_ thing too.

Yeah. It’s not unexpected. It makes sense. And we still text, probably a bit more than usual.

Well, we text the same amount as we did before. There are just a lot more emojis now.

So I thought it might be nice. To surprise you. We haven’t been able to get coffee since… everything happened. And I have some scientific reports to give you.

Except… now that I think about it… the reports are about teleporting furniture, moving from room to room when people aren’t home. And if this Faceless Old Woman is really a person who can do things… that may have simplified my explanation.

Regardless.

I still brought you a drink. No point in wasting it now.

We’ve gotten coffee enough times that I know you always get the same thing. No matter which coffee shop we go to, it’s always been the exact same drink.

And I don’t really know how to feel about the fact that in a town where one of the most popular menu items at coffee shops is just called “Spiders”, Cecil’s regular order is…

Green tea. With a drop of honey.

Because it’s good for your voice. Soothing.

It’s literally the simplest beverage order I have ever heard. Even _mine_ is more complicated.

It’s a completely mundane drink. Which somehow seems absolutely bizarre, coming from you. I always imagined it’d be some sort of squid ink latte with unicorn tears and served in a piece of asteroid.

Green tea. Loose leaf. Steeped for three and a half minutes. Drop of honey.

On the bright side, it’s simple enough that I _know_ I got it _exactly_ right.

It’s only a few minutes into the broadcast. The weather probably won’t be for a while yet. Which is kind of nice. It feels a little weird to watch you without you knowing it, but I really don’t think you’d mind. I don’t know if you’d be able to _focus_ , but I don’t think you’d mind.

 

“And now, a public service announcement from the Greater Night Vale Medical Community.”

 

Fuck. How do you look like this when you work?

I don’t think I’ve ever looked that relaxed in my entire life. I probably even look stressed out when I sleep.

But Ceec, you’re just… liquid. Is that weird? Liquid? Probably not a thing a person is supposed to be. But that’s what it is. You look so smooth and confident and focused and happy - your mouth is quirked up just a little bit. Do you always look that happy when you’re on the air? You have sounded a little happier lately. Just, in general.

Or maybe I’m imagining that.

But you’re definitely smiling a little bit. Your mouth moves a little slower than I expected, though I suppose you’re just taking your time and forming the words carefully. And the corners are lifted a bit. A little smile. In the corners of your lips. Your lips. Lips.

Fuck.

Shit fuck.

Have your lips always looked like this? How do they… what… they’re just…

Fuck. They’re _perfect_ . I’ve never understood the sentiment of saying someone’s lips look _'soft'_ . I mean, I know what horrible, chapped lips look like (I just have to look in a mirror). But all other lips look equally _‘_ _soft'_ to me. They’re just lips. Lips are soft. That’s just what they are. I never got it.

Your lips, Cecil.

They look _soft_.

And gorgeous.

And perfect.

How have I ever survived a conversation with you? I’ve looked at your face while you’re talking to me. How did I not just… burst into flames? How have I never noticed your lips before?

Maybe it’s because, contextually, I’ve never been able to-

I mean, it’s not like I came here planning to kiss you. It genuinely never crossed my mind. And I know there’s no way in hell that I’d get up the courage anyway. But as far as _you and I_ and _us_ and _we_ are concerned… that’s a thing now. That’s a thing that could happen. It’s a possibility. I could kiss you now. At any time. I could kiss you right on the perfect amazing beautiful soft lips.

I’m blushing so hard it’s making my eyes sting.

Just thinking about the fact that our current social construct allows kissing as a viable option for interaction.

Just thinking about that, and watching your lips.

Your soft lips.

Are they… a little glossy? Or do they always look like that? What does lipgloss look like? Is it always super shiny, or can it be subtle, like this? Chapstick? That’s a thing. Is it that? I wonder if it’s flavored.

Then again, that’s _also_ something I’ve never understood. How people just _know_. They kiss someone and immediately it’s ‘Ah yes, Strawberry’, or ‘Passionfruit, what a perfect choice!’

How the _fuck_ can you tell? All artificial fruit flavoring just tastes like sweet fakeness to me. Sugar lies. How can anyone tell down to the exact kind of berry? Should you really be able to get that good of a taste anyway? Wouldn’t you have to sit there and repeatedly lick across their lips to get more than just a hint of flavor?

Cecil would probably just _tell_ me, anyway. His lipgloss (chapstick?) is probably more unusual than just watermelon or cherry, anyway. I’m sure he’d just tell me. I wouldn’t even have to kiss him to find out.

Wouldn’t have to kiss his perfect lips. The ones right there in front of me. Smiling the tiniest smile. They’re definitely soft. And they probably taste amazing.

Oh my god.

Is that a thing?

My lips are chapped and horrible and not soft at all and they probably just taste like regular skin-flavored garbage lips. Cecil, I can’t let you kiss garbage lips.

I need to buy some chapstick.

 

“This has been Community Health Tips.

More on the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home. She has issued a statement to the media just now. Here is that statement:”

 

You hit a button on the control board. And set down your papers.

Is she… in the room with you? Is this live? It’s probably a pre-recorded message. I’m sure there’s no invisible woman in the studio with you, Cecil.

But if it’s a pre-recorded segment, that means-

You lean back in your chair. It looks like you sigh, but I can’t tell. Your eyes start to wander.

Shit.

You look out the window.

_Shit_.

You see me.

It takes a second. A split-second, but still. There’s a moment of blank, stunned, nothing.

And then you smile.

And I don’t turn around. I don’t turn around to see who could possibly be making you smile like that.

Because it’s me.

It’s me.

I understand that now.

The smile lights you up right away, but somehow it just keeps growing. You turn toward me, and start to get out of your chair. But your headphones are still on, still connected, and you get stuck.

 

_‘_ _Carlos!’_

 

I see your mouth move in that shape, but you aren’t broadcasting right now, so I can't hear it.

I smile back, which only makes me _more_ aware that my whole face is burning up again. I carefully shift the cardboard cup of tea so I can press one finger to my lips, and I use my free hand to point frantically down to your microphone. Because I didn’t plan for you to see me until the weather. And the last thing I want is for you to get in trouble because I distracted you from your work.

You understand. You sit back down, adjusting your headphones. You’re still smiling at me.

I hold the cup of tea up to the window.

“Weather?” I try to move my lips as clearly as possible.

Your whole face just… melts. But in a good way. You’re still smiling, but it's softer. Less surprised and more… happy. You nod.

So I nod back.

We're both still smiling.

You pick up your papers. And scoot your chair toward your desk. Without turning. You manage to lean yourself in your chair so you’re still angled toward the microphone, but without turning away from me. It looks like you’re clearing your throat, and adjusting your papers. Getting ready.

And you’re still looking at me.

There’s probably still a bit of time before the weather.

But I don’t really mind. You’re getting ready to resume your broadcast. To get back on the air. And you’re still looking at me.

See? I knew you wouldn’t mind letting me watch.

 

_“If you could only see the world as it really is. It is awful, and on fire, and beautiful._

_Listeners, stay tuned next for our newest hit program: Open-Mouthed Chewing! Tonight’s topic: glass shards - how to make the best out of a bad situation. Until next time,_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, I've gotten some amazing feedback in the past, but last chapter was really unbelievable. "One Year Later" has always been my favorite episode (for obvious reasons), so getting such a positive response truly meant the world to me. I can't explain how happy it made me. I'm so honestly, genuinely thrilled that people are enjoying this fic as much as I am.  
> And as always, from the bottom of my heart: Thank you for reading.


	28. There was that awkward moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-seven: "First Date"

_“...at the end of every date, where you pause outside of the person’s door, and it’s like, ‘should I call the City Council and submit the standard end-of-date paperwork, or are you going to?’ Also, I was wondering if he was going to invite me into his lab to look at all those beakers and humming electrical equipment.”_

 

Wh-

Tha-

S-

What.

_WHAT?_

You’re saying that-

You’re actually saying-

Cecil.

You’re saying that you…

You wanted me… to invite you inside?

At the end of our date?

An invitation into my lab (which happens to be attached to my apartment) after our date, which - coupled with whatever the fuck was just happening with the tone of your voice - would imply that you wanted…

You wanted me to invite you inside.

You wanted me to invite you… upstairs?

Like… in the ‘after the date’ type of way?

Like… you wanted…

Something’s not right here.

I mean, logically, looking back at the events of the past year, Cecil wanting me to invite him up to my apartment after a date? Not very surprising.

But Cecil wanting me to invite him up to my apartment after _that_ date?

That’s downright absurd.

I must be misinterpreting something here. He must have just meant that he wanted to come to the lab to help with the Shadow Energy stuff. Because he cares about this town. And he’s a pretty helpful person, generally speaking. He was literally just offering his assistance.

Which, you know, is what I thought when he actually asked last night.

Asked if I needed help.

Obviously that’s all he meant by that.

That’s why he said it like that. That’s why he used those words.

He asked if I needed help. He didn’t ask if he could come upstairs. He didn’t ask if I felt like having coffee, or a nightcap, or if there was any good science in my bedroom, or any of the other euphemisms that I can’t remember because it’s been too damn long since I’ve been on a date that made it to the ‘euphemism’ phase.

This is _Cecil_ after all. If he wanted to come upstairs, he would have just… asked.

Right?

Obviously.

Right.

Right?

Wondering if I was going to ‘invite him into the lab’.

Totally normal thing to wonder. There was a crisis. The town was in peril. Hell, things were bad enough that I probably _should_ have asked for help.

This is all totally normal.

Except…

The way you said it just now, Cecil.

You slowed down a little. Your voice was… different. Not like it would have been if you had just… you know… _meant_ it. Meant the words at face-value. It sounded like… there was something else. It sounded coy and… flirty?

I suppose I’m not qualified to tell what’s flirting and what isn’t.

But still. Cecil, it really sounded like… you wanted me to invite you inside.

Cecil.

Did we go on the same date?

Because the date that _I_ went on wasn’t the kind that ends with a cozy breakfast before a shame-free Walk of Shame the next morning.

The date that I went on was the kind that ends with a fake phone number and a story about leaving for a research project in the Amazon ‘so I probably won’t be around for a second date oh no how sad’.

Seriously, Cecil.

I was a _disaster_. I made the actual supernatural disaster in the town look like a good prospect. The Shadow Energy would have made a better date than I did. You were _there,_ Cecil. You know this.

You should know this.

What the fuck did you expect from someone who asked you out (after no less than a _year_ of build-up) by saying “I am calling for personal reasons”? Who does that? Who says that? Who else in the entire universe has _ever_ said those words in that combination before?

No one, that’s who. It’s just me. I’m the only person on the entire planet who needs to preface a social/romantic dinner request like that. I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t _plan_ to say it. It wasn’t part of the script that I’d practiced in the mirror for a week and a half. _Obviously_ it wasn’t part of my script. Because it’s stupid. I would never _intentionally_ say something like that.

But when you picked up the phone, you were so ready for it to be something else. You didn’t even let me get past “Hi, Cecil” before you were asking how everything is and how I was doing and what scientific updates I had for you. Even after everything that’s happened, and all the texts and emojis and smiles that have happened this past month, when I called you _still_ assumed it didn’t mean anything. You didn’t make any assumptions. You’ve been waiting for me to take things further.

And I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I just blurted those fucking words right in the middle of all your respectful consideration.

I mean, really, Cecil, that should have been plenty of impetus to lower your expectations.

I was a wreck. The entire date. Start to finish.

How could you not tell?

I’ve never been more nervous about anything in my entire life.

I hope you at least understand _why,_ Cecil.

Because, even though it sounds horrible to say it…

It’s your fault.

That sounds so harsh. And I don’t mean it to be harsh. But it’s the truth. You can’t really have expected any different. Because… I mean…

It’s been a _year._ A whole year, Cecil. You’ve been interested in me for a year. And while I may not have understood your intentions the entire time, now I’m aware that regardless of whatever else was happening way back when, there was a genuine _interest_ underneath it all. You liked me. You like me. You’ve liked me for a year. You’ve had a crush on me for a year. And now we’re finally… here… wherever we are, doing whatever we’re doing. You’ve been wanting this for a year. You’ve had _an entire year_ to imagine what this would be like. To imagine what I’d be like on a date. To imagine what it’d be like to be with me.

Cecil, I can’t live up to _no_ expectations, much less _that._

I didn’t want to disappoint you.

But I assumed I would.

Right from the start. Down to the very last detail. I fucked up everything, I know I did.

I couldn’t even _dress_ right. I may not understand anything about fashion in Night Vale (or, really, anywhere else), so I’m not really sure if the whole ‘tunic and furry pants’ ensemble is some sort of Night Valian fashion tradition for dates, or if that’s just… Cecil. But either way, it doesn’t take a Scientist to be able to tell that it was _so much nicer_ than what I was wearing. There you were, looking like a goddamn dream, and I was wearing a fucking _business-casual labcoat_ like a fucking _moron_. How did I not realize that a first date with _Cecil_ deserved _at_ _least_ a semi-formal labcoat?!

Business-casual. Like I was giving a fucking thesis presentation, not going on a date with a beautiful fashionista.

Cecil, you should have taken one look at me and realized I wasn’t worth the effort.

And, of course, it just kept going downhill from there.

I mean… not dinner, I guess. Dinner was actually… really nice. Because that’s what we do. Not full meals at fancy restaurants, but sitting and talking over food and beverages. That’s kind of… our thing. We’re used to coffee and scones in low-key environments, but this really wasn’t too different. The eating, and talking, we’re good at that.

Hell, it was actually a little easier than usual. A dinner date was less nerve-wracking than the dozens of casual coffee not-dates we’ve had. Probably… probably because we’re being… honest now. You’ve liked me for a long time. And I’ve liked you for… a time. It’s actually kind of hard to tell, what with all the denial and crap muddying my timeline. But that’s been an undercurrent for a while, one that neither of us would acknowledge. Me, because I was a fucking idiot. And you, because you knew acknowledging it would make me uncomfortable. So we didn’t talk about it. We kept that extra… _thing_ hidden, and I think that was starting to fuck it all up.

Now, it’s all out in the open. And that’s… a lot nicer. We like each other. We were on a date. No more extra layers and hidden meanings. Just… us. On a date.

It was really nice, Cecil.

And then the fucking park happened.

Just thinking about it makes me want to bury my face in the couch cushions and never come out.

Well… it couldn’t hurt…

I wiggle on the couch until I’ve wiggled myself onto my stomach. I take a deep breath (as deep as I can manage, what with hot-burning embarrassment shrinking my lung capacity), and smush my face into the crevice between the back-cushion and the seat-cushion.

There’s a lot of crumbs in here.

The upholstery is itchy.

But somehow… the memory of the park last night does feel a little less embarrassing in here.

Ah. Nope. Now I’m thinking about it again.

Maybe…

It’s worth a shot.

I scream. As loud as I can. Right into the nest of crumbs and loose change and chewed pen caps. The couch successfully muffles most of the sound. I doubt anyone could hear it downstairs in the lab - the lab from which I decided to gracefully excuse myself when Cecil’s show started, because I assumed I wouldn’t want to be around my coworkers when Cecil talked about our date. I was sure as fuck right about that.

I scream a bit more, just for good measure.

It helps. I feel a little better.

The fucking park.

The walk in the park.

Leave me here to die.

‘We could do some tests on the trees.’

‘We could do some _tests._ On the _trees_.’

Cecil.

I don’t know anything about _trees!_

I’m a _Scientist!_

But there wasn’t anything else around, and I panicked!

The silence had lasted almost two whole minutes. That’s too long for a silence, Cecil! I can’t handle a silence that long! Dinner lasted almost two whole hours, and we don’t usually talk that long. We covered all our usual topics, covered a bunch of _other_ topics, and the conversation hit a natural lull. It was to be expected. But _two whole minutes?!_ I’m not emotionally equipped to handle that! It was just you and me in Mission Grove Park walking at sunset and you put your arm through mine and it was _so unbelievably nice_ but then there was silence and I couldn’t think of anything to say and the silence _just kept going_ so I panicked and obviously I always fill any panicked silence with science but there wasn’t anything around but trees and _I had to do something._

I don’t know anything about trees, Cecil.

I stood in front of those trees and pretended to do science on them for _almost ten minutes_.

Just standing there. Pretending to do science. Making thoughtful noises. Looking at different bits of them. Doing absolutely nothing.

I can’t tell if I’m gonna cry, or vomit, or have a panic attack. I don’t think I’ve ever been this embarrassed in my entire life. And for me, that is quite an achievement.

 

_“‘I should probably do something about this buzzing shadow-thing,’ he said. ‘A few experiments, to see if I can save the town.’”_

 

Oh my god, ‘save the town’. I said that. I said those words. Out loud. Like some kind of fucking Science Vigilante.

 

_“‘Oh?’ I said, ‘Do you need any help with that?’_

_‘No,’ he said, ‘a Scientist is self-reliant. It’s the first thing a Scientist is.’”_

 

Oh my _gooooooood,_ Carlos, you stupid pretentious _fuckwad,_ what is your _problem?_

 

 _“_ _‘Oh,’ I said again, but softer, sadder.”_

 

That’s-

You-

Cecil, I just don’t get it.

I lift my face out of couch. There are crumbs stuck to my nose.

Cecil, I’m a disaster. I was a disaster last night. I’m a disaster most of the time.

You’ve been idolizing me for a year, and you finally go on a date with me, and I’m a fucking disaster. So why…

Why…

Why did you just spend your entire radio show talking about… what a great time you had?

You…

 

_“...which is when he leaned forward, and kissed me. Just once. Just gently. Just before slipping out of the car and into the lab._

_I’ll tell you, listeners, I was almost swallowed by a cloud of malevolent shadow energy on the drive home and I hardly even noticed. I was so happy.”_

 

But…

Disaster. And trees. And business-casual. I was a wreck.

And you still…

You had an entire year to idolize me. To imagine how this date would go. How did I not fuck all that up? An entire year.

An entire year… of you getting to know me. Talking to me. Getting coffee with me.

So you… know. You know me. You know that I don’t know how to style my hair like a person. You know that most of my clothes were bought over fifteen years ago and are stained with chemicals. You know that my voice cracks when I get excited, and that I get excited way too easily.

Maybe you weren’t expecting anything else. Maybe after a year of having a crush on me, you were just expecting... a date.

With me.

And you had a good time.

You wanted me to invite you upstairs. You didn’t want the date to be over yet.

Oh my god.

I could have invited you upstairs.

Something twists somewhere in my stomach. My hand twitches, like a shiver contained to just that one extremity.

Cecil, I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. Much longer than I actually admitted to myself.

And I did. I finally did.

I even made myself wait until the end of the date. Because that’s when the kiss traditionally happens. I wanted to kiss you the second I saw you, but that's not how it's done. It's at the end of the date. On the doorstep. I was going to kiss you on the doorstep. I put on chapstick and everything. But then my idiot mouth told you _not_ to come inside, so I essentially told you not to get out of the car and fucked myself over.

But I kissed you anyway. Even though I thought the date had gone so horrifically wrong.

And it was…

My hand twitches again. A little shiver.

It was so fast. Too fast, probably. Too sudden. I pictured it very different. I pictured it with asking and standing and slowly leaning in and my hand on your cheek and no fucking armrests between us. It wasn’t anything like that.  

You made a little noise, Cecil. The tiniest little tiny sound that any person has ever made.

I assumed at the time that it was something bad. That you were offended that I kissed you in a car and not on the doorstep like I was supposed to.

But maybe you were just… surprised. Or happy.

Happy.

So happy.

I brush the crumbs off of my nose.

The embarrassment has cooled down. It’s not gnawing at my chest cavity like it’s trying to eat my ribs anymore. There’s something else instead.

Excitement.

Quiet, and calm, and a little hesitant. But… hopeful.

A second date?

Cecil hasn’t texted me yet today. But he _did_ just spend thirty-one minutes talking about how wonderful he thought our first date was, so I think it’s safe to assume that…

If I called him when his show ends. And asked for a second date.

Cecil, I think you’ll say yes.

And this time, I’m inviting you upstairs.

 

_“And, with all the love in my loving heart, and with a loving voice in a loving and terrifying world:_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I think telling us that Carlos doesn't know things about trees AFTER telling us that Carlos did experiments on trees during their date is my absolute FAVORITE THING that has EVER happened in the entire Night Vale canon. Needless to say, I was excited for this chapter.  
> As always, thank you all so much for reading. Cecil and Carlos have meant so much to me since this podcast started, and it's so wonderful to hear that people are enjoying their story as much as I am.


	29. Try denying that it's hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-eight: "Summer Reading Program"

_“‘Doesn’t seem hot today,’ you might say to  your profusely sweating neighbor. ‘A little chilly, even,’ you could continue, slipping on a sweater and making an exaggerated ‘brrrrr!’ noise.”_

 

I mean, that’s-

Yeah, that’s funny, Ceec. That’s really funny.

I _want_ to laugh. That was funny enough that it definitely deserves a laugh.

But it’s hard to laugh when you have to stop your science every five minutes to wipe the sweat out of your safety goggles.

Because the AC in the lab is broken.

And we can’t use fans, because that much air blowing all over the place is bound to mess up someone’s experiments.

So we’re all just kind of… suffering today. Quietly suffering.

I’m even wearing my lightest beachwear labcoat. It’s still too much.

So I can’t quite laugh. But I’m smiling, so that’s something. Maybe I’ll advance to Sickly Chuckle by the end of the day.

The petri dish goes a little blurry. I rip yet another paper towel off of the roll on my desk and cram it in the space between my goggles and my glasses. To wipe up the steam. It’s so hot it’s literally _steaming_ inside my own face.

Somehow… that is fucking hilarious.

It’s not too much effort to laugh after all. It feels nice, in the sweatily tense atmosphere of the lab. Just a little bit of laughter. Cecil said something funny recently enough that it shouldn’t seem too weird to be laughing. Cecil said something funny. There should be laughter. Even Monica isn’t laughing today. Everyone’s too emotionally exhausted by the heat.

Well, everyone but me, I guess.

Now that I think about it… I haven’t really minded the heat today. I usually complain when it’s mildly balmy, but I didn’t even really notice that we’re approaching the temperatures of Hell today until everyone else started complaining about it. Huh.

I crumple up the damp paper towel and toss it toward the nearest garbage can. I miss, quite spectacularly. Whoops.

I look back down, and the petri dish is in sharp focus again. Good. Excellent. Yeah.

Science.

This is the ninth… thing that’s been brought in today. The ninth… growth. People have been noticing them all over town. Waking up and finding this… growth, somewhere on their bodies. Apparently they peel off of skin pretty painlessly (or the people who have them just can’t feel pain?), because no one has thought to go to the hospital yet. Instead, they’re just peeling them off and bringing them here.

Responsible? Probably not.

Convenient for me? Fuck yes.

The other two I’ve looked at so far are solid enough that all my poking and prodding didn’t do anything. But this one is significantly squishier. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to cut it open without any-

Something hits the back of my head.

I stop whistling.

When did I start whistling?

After I stopped laughing, I guess.

I glance down. It’s a balled up piece of paper. I turn around to see which coworker just pelted me with a projectile during work hours. Because seriously, rude. And unwarranted.

They’re all glaring.

Wh-

They seem satisfied by my confused silence, because they begrudgingly return to work.

Okay. Just… moving on, I guess.

I turn back to the petri dish. The growth has been slowly changing color throughout the day. So far I’m assuming it must be parasitic in nature and is lacking nutrients now that it’s detached from its host and this is causing the color to drain and pro-

Something hits the back of my head.

It’s a bigger ball of paper this time. Who had paper this big?

I stop whistling.

I-

Oh.

Whistling?

I suppose… I’ve kind of been… doing that a lot today.

Whistling.

And laughing.

And smiling.

While everyone else is basically miserable.

I guess they’re… upset? That I’m in a good mood?

Huh.

Well.

Well that’s just-

You know?

Yeah.

You know what?

I woke up this morning with a _very_ gorgeous, _very_ naked radio host tangled up in my sheets, and if that’s put a little extra skip in my step, everyone can just _fucking deal with it._

While it certainly wasn’t the first time Cecil’s stayed over, it _was_ the first time Cecil’s stayed over on a weeknight. I guess I never noticed how much it improves my mood until I came down to a lab full of witnesses after breakfast.

But, seriously, what did they expect?

Getting up early. Woken by movement instead of my blaring alarm clock. Cecil getting back in bed after showering, still damp, smelling like my shampoo. An _actual_ breakfast, with the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. The indescribable experience of watching Cecil do his hair and makeup flawlessly without even glancing at a mirror. Cecil insisting on staying to do the dishes when I had to leave, since he doesn’t have to be at work as early as I do. No less than _four_ attempts to successfully disentangle from the kiss in the doorway that was definitely meant to be one quick goodbye. Cecil walking all the way around the building just so he’d pass by the window next to my lab bench on the way to his car.

And everyone expects me to be in a _bad_ mood, just because it’s a little warm today?

Yeah.

Nice try.

Everyone’s been so nice lately, I’m a little surprised that they all turned on me so easily.

Well, maybe I’m not. Just because I wasn’t expecting the ‘nice’ in the first place.

Or maybe I did, just not in the same way.

But that goes all the way back to that night. The one with the miniature city and the party that never happened and the… Cecil… stuff. The Cecil stuff.

And yeah, the part where I almost died. That too.

I went back to the lab when I finally left the Arby’s. I mean, the actual  _lab_ part of the lab, not just the apartment. I had brought some things with me to the bowling alley and I wanted to drop them off before limping my way upstairs.

Everyone was still there. They had been getting ready to go to Cecil’s party at the station, but after the broadcast they assumed that wasn’t a thing anymore. So they were still there.

And when I walked in, they were all… happy. Happy to see me. And honest to god, my idiot brain’s first thought was that they’d heard the whole “He put his hand on my knee” business and they were excited that I’d finally gotten my shit together as far as Cecil is concerned.

But then I realized that they were happy that, you know, I didn’t die.

Which was nice.

And surprising.

And how fucking sad is that, now that I think about it?

I’ve spent a year with these people, working with them almost every fucking day, and I _know_ that they’re nice people.

And I was _surprised_ that they were mildly pleased that I didn’t _die._

On the bright side, that’s sort of… kicked everything into gear. I’m still not sure if I’d ask any of them to pick me up at the airport, or invite all of them to my birthday party (if I had birthday parties in the first place), but I still think it’s safe to say that these coworkers are… yeah, I think I can say they’re my friends now. And I don’t think any of them would disagree with that term. It might not be some magically powerful bond that will unite us until the end of time, but still. Friends. On some level, these people are my friends.

Something hits the back of my head.

These people are all garbage.

I didn’t even realize I knew _how_ to whistle until today.

“Sorry.” I make sure I sound only partially sincere. Because I can appreciate that I’m being annoying. I understand that they’re annoyed with me.

But that doesn’t mean they have to _throw_ shit. They’re adults.

You’d think they’d be happy that I’m happy. That I’m annoyingly, loudly, persistently happy while all of them are hot and miserable and angry and yeah okay I guess if I were in their situation I’d be throwing shit at me too.

“Sorry.” I sound more sincere this time.

I can be quietly happy. I can be respectfully happy. I can be in a politely good mood.

 

_“In light of this development, the City Council has declared a Level Orange Fear Alert.”_

 

I notice that I’m whistling before anyone can pelt me with paper.

I press my lips together, fold them into my mouth, and dig my teeth into the inside of my cheeks.

Can’t accidentally start whistling like this.

But I still manage to make a little… oh god… a little giggle-type sound.

Yeah, I’m starting to hate me too.

It’s just… I don’t know. It’s more entertaining to listen to Cecil’s show now.

You’d think the whole ‘Voice of Night Vale’ mystique would kinda dissipate once you’ve seen that Voice drool all over your favorite pillowcase.

But it’s still there. It turns out that knowing all the different ways Cecil’s voice can sound doesn’t make his Important Radio Host voice any less… what it is. Smooth. Mysterious. Comforting. Not quite ‘magical’, but… special. Yeah. Special.

There’s definitely something special about your voice on the radio, Cecil.

And it isn’t any less special now that I know what it sounds like when you laugh so hard you snort. Or how you talk faster and faster the more excited you get, until I can barely distinguish one word from another. Or how it takes a good twenty minutes after waking up for you to get all the sleepy gunk out of your throat, and you sound like a frog. A very cute, sleepy little frog. Or how much higher your voice gets when you’re shy about something, how you stammer when you’re nervous, and how you whisper when you ask for something you really want. Or all the different ways I’ve heard you say my name.

Or how the first time I woke up in bed with you, you looked over at my dumb, sleep-crusted face, smiled, and said a very quiet, emphatic, and completely sincere: _“Golly.”_

My face is burning so bad that it’s making my sweat feel cold. I have to smush my mouth with my hand to keep from making any stupid sounds. I get one of those hand-shivers again.

This is not an appropriate workplace train of thought.

This is not a scientific train of thought.

Focus.

If I can’t successfully get through a workday after Cecil spends the night, I won’t be able to spend anymore weeknights with Cecil. And that’s a horrible, _horrible_ thought.

The growth thing.

In the petri dish.

Right.

I finally go to slice the growth open.

And it’s…

Shit.

It’s solid now. Like the other ones.

They must start solidifying once they’re detached from a human host.

I poke it with the scalpel a bit more, but yeah. Nothing’s gonna happen. It feels like I’m trying to stab plastic.

It actually feels… a _lot_ like plastic.

I wrestle my hands into a fresh pair of gloves before picking it up. It’s… yeah. I can’t be sure without doing tests, but based on a base level of observation, this is plastic. Plastic that has been… growing on people today. Yeah.

I pick up one of the other ones, one that’s been plastic-y since it got here.

Something flakes off of it. Like a cheap coat of paint. I brush it off with my finger, making sure the little pieces and chips land in the petri dish. The vaguely-pink color flakes right off. And underneath it’s…

A barcode?

I mean…

Yeah, that’s.

That’s definitely a barcode.

On this growth.

That came off of someone’s neck.

So is that…

I mean…

I pull out my cellphone. There’s a scanner app (that I admittedly downloaded to make couponing easier, but no one has to know that). I hold it over the growth’s barcode.

Processing…

Processing…

My phone beeps. The screen lights up.

‘WELCOME, LUAN ESTRADA. YOU HAVE: 0 BOOKS CHECKED OUT’

Well that’s…

Not quite what I was expecting.

So this is…

Yeah.

This is a library card.

That… grew on someone’s neck this morning.

Library cards are… growing on people.

Yeah.

I should… I should write this down.

Or maybe tell someone?

I should tell Cecil.

Yeah, I’ll tell Cecil. He’s been talking about some Library stuff all day, stuff that I’ve definitely been paying attention to and haven’t been ignoring because I’ve been thinking about other Cecil-related things. Yep. I’ve been paying _all_ the attention.

I’ll call him during the weather.

And I tell him to tell his listeners that if they notice any growths on them, it’s very likely that they’re just… library cards. Obviously I have more research to do, but he should at least let people know that they seem harmless so far? Right?

And I’ll get to call him. And talk to him. That’s not the important part, obviously. The important part is the Very Important Science. Obviously.

It's not important that I’ll get to talk to Cecil. And I’ll get to tell him thanks for doing the dishes this morning. And I’ll get to hear him use any number of non-radio voices. And I’ll get to hear him say my name.

Something hits the back of my head.

You know what?

I can’t even pretend to be sorry.

 

_“Stay tuned next for our countdown of last words, from ‘Stop telling me how to drive’, all the way to ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.’_

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting some of the most AMAZING comments on these last few chapters, and I can't tell you how happy they've all made me. Thank you so much for reading, for sharing, and for all of your unbelievably lovely feedback. I'm so excited to keep sharing these dorks with you. =)


	30. Subways allow us to interact with each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode twenty-nine: "Subway"

“...make eye contact, acknowledge each other as fellow creatures.”

 

I press my hand to my mouth.

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh don’t laugh _don’t laugh._

Your head moves. Just the tiniest little bit. Hopefully that doesn’t mean you heard me. I’m trying _really_ hard here.

But… come _on._ That’s too good. The irony of it.

That is irony, right? I’m not sure I’ve ever really grasped that definition too well.

But it definitely _feels_ like irony.

‘Interacting with each other.’ ‘Making eye contact.’

In this particular situation.

Yeah. That’s gotta be irony.

 

“We’ll have more on this breaking story soon.”

 

You hit a button on the sound board. One light flicks on, and another flicks off.

You disconnect the cord from your headphones, so they're still on your head, but not attached to the board.

 

_“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to talk to you now about a popular new service in town that delivers feelings, whether you want them or not.”_

 

Oh.

It’s… pre-recorded? Is that a thing? Are a lot of your segments pre-recorded? I suppose that makes sense. I’d never considered that before, but, yeah. The ads, and all those statements from outside sources. You could easily record those whenever they come in, and just… yeah. Play them later. Give your voice a break for a few seconds.

How many seconds?

“Ninety seconds.”

Oh. Good.

How’d you know I was going to ask that?

It doesn’t fucking matter, because you’re sneaking away from your chair, away from the microphone, with your headphones disconnected, while you are technically still in the middle of a _live broadcast_ …

And you’re sitting down next to me. On the floor, back against the wall, right underneath the window out into the hallway.

And for the next eighty-eight seconds, I’m gonna kiss the crap out of you.

While you’re _on the air._

This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

And in a really, _really_ sad way, it’s also… kind of the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done? Kissing a radio host while he’s supposed to be broadcasting? Huddled on the floor of the studio with… yep- that’s- yep… with his tongue very much down my throat.

This is…

Uh.

Yeah, this is…

Fuck. I’ll think of what this is just as soon as I’m done seeing if I can get you to make that sound again. Maybe if I tug your hair a little? I’ll be sure not to dislodge your headset, just get a nice fistfull at the back-

“Oh, _Carlos…”_

Jesus fucking shit hell fuck damn shitting _fuck._

I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die right here on the floor of your studio, Cecil. With your hands - _shit_ \- your hands pushing inside the lapels of my labcoat and gripping my shirt like you’re just gonna tear it right open and this is my favorite shirt but _goddamn_ if you wanna set it on fire I’d be okay with that right now if you just keep using your teeth like that-

 

_“I myself have received a few feelings so far, such as ‘blood feud’ and ‘frustrated origami novice’, and I’m-”_

 

“...looking forward to receiving more.”

Shit. _Shit._

I press my hand to my mouth again. But this time, my lips are a little wet.

My whole body shakes with the laughter that I’m trying to keep in - really Cecil, I promise I’m trying.

But you can’t just _do_ that. You can’t just talk along with your own recording so I hear you in stereo, and you _definitely_ can’t do a stupid, overdramatic imitation of your own voice when you do it! Why are you making it a little British? Is that how you hear yourself?

You start giggling too. You smush your face against my shoulder to try and stifle it.

God, what the fuck is my life?

I’m sprawled out on the floor of the Night Vale Community Radio studio, during a broadcast that’s going out to the entire town, with my glasses hanging off one ear, and I'm trying the hardest I’ve ever tried in my entire damn life to _not_ burst out laughing.

And Cecil, you’re right here with me. Sprawled out even _worse_ than I am, because you were like… halfway toward crawling into my lap, so your limbs are _everywhere,_ and you’re literally biting down on my labcoat like a gag to keep from laughing at the sound your own damn voice on the air.

Am I drunk? Am I fourteen? Am I dreaming?

Probably one of those.

“Ah!” You spring away from me, flailing to get to your feet like a baby giraffe trying to stand up for the first time. “Wait wait wait wait!” You scramble over to your desk.

 

_“I just really enjoy having feelings delivered straight to me without having to worry about which feeling and why and when.”_

 

You hit a button.

And there’s… fuck. There’s a few seconds of dead air. But-

 

_“The Secret Police, in cooperation with A Vague, Yet Menacing Government Agency, would like to remind you that here in Night Vale, no one is eating each other.”_

 

Okay. We're fine. For another…?

“Seventy-seven seconds.”

Seventy-seven seconds.

That's plenty of time for smooching.

If you’d… if you’d just get back over here by me. Why are you still by your desk? Cecil, you’re wasting valuable kissing time.

“I…” You reach down to grab the cord for your headphones. You’re a little out of breath. “I have to go back on the air after this.”

Oh, jesus. The way you said it, it sounded like you were telling me your puppy just got hit by a car. I’ve never heard anyone sound so sad in my entire life.

I try to smile, but I can tell there’s a hint of dead puppy in it. “I should get back to the lab, anyway.”

I should have gotten back to the lab like, half an hour ago. I was just here to tell you about the roaches. And bring you a jar full of them, one of the _hundreds_ of jars of roach samples at the lab. I brought them in before your show started. I was supposed to drop them off, and then leave.

It’s not _entirely_ my fault that you ended up so distracted that I was still in the studio when you needed to start the show. You were just as distracting as I was. It was a mutual distraction.

My knees are a little wobbly. I need to hold onto the window ledge to haul myself to my feet. We probably have less than a minute now.

You look at me, from over by your chair. Your hair’s a little messed up. Your face is flushed. Your lips are a little too bright. And a little wet.

And if _that_ weren’t enough, you start to smile.

Fuck, Cecil, are you trying to kill me?

“See you tonight?” you ask, almost... shyly, like you’re not sure what the answer will be.

Ah, _shit._

Apparently, I have no impulse control. Because I basically _run_ over to your desk. I need one more kiss. One last one, I promise. I’ll leave you to your show, your _work,_ in just a second. Just one more kiss. A little one. A soft one.

“Absolutely.”

Your smile gets bigger. And bigger. And cuter. And jesus _fuck_ if I don’t get out of here soon, there’s definitely not going to be anymore radio show happening anytime soon.

Alright. Like a bandaid. Just rip it off, in one go.

I step away from you, backing up toward the door. “Bye, Ceec.”

I back up until I crash into the door.

You laugh. “Bye, Carlos.”

I open the door and sneak out into the hallway just as you’re plugging in your headset and sitting back down. I make sure the door closes all the way.

I know that if I stick around at _all,_ I’ll never actual leave. So I start moving, right away. Gotta get out of here. Away from this hallway. Cecil’s too close here. Too tempting. Especially now that I know that even being _on the air_ isn’t enough to prevent us from being all over each other like teenagers at a drive-in.

Get out of the station, back to the lab, back to work-

Oh.

Um.

There’s… there’s just a… child.

There’s a creepy little child walking through the hallway. Right toward the studio.

Should I…

Do I… tell someone?

The child goes inside the studio.

Where is this child’s supervisor?

 

_“The City Council has now officially denied any involvement in our fantastic new subway system. We have this direct from a fair-haired and hollow-eyed child they sent with the denial tattooed on his inner lip.”_

 

Okay…

So I guess that’s fine.

Moving on.

I pull out my phone as I head out of the station. I finally figured out how to download the NVCR app, so I can listen to the show without using that old pocket-radio.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t even have to open the app. It’s already going.

It’s not really necessary. They broadcast the show through the station while it’s happening. And I’m heading out to my car, where it’ll already be playing on the radio. It’s just that little walk from one door to the other. But it’s… I don’t know. It’s just habit now. It’s been over a year. This is how it goes. I _always_ listen to Cecil’s show. Everyone does. I don’t question it anymore.

My phone buzzes right as my keys make it into the ignition.

It’s a text from Rochelle. Her texts are always _epic,_ novel-length experiences with the perfect combination of impeccable grammar and unbelievably intricate usage of emojis. As usual, it takes a minute or two to get through the whole thing.

Subway… riders coming back… changed… soulless? That can’t be right… DNA patterns… not coming back at all… crisis… emergency.

Oh great.

I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising. A nice municipal service suddenly appears out of nowhere, in _Night Vale?_

Of course it’s turning people into zombies and kidnapping them and shit.

I open up a text to Cecil, and type out the basics of Rochelle’s discoveries. I make the _danger_ part of it as clear as possible, since Cecil has a tendency to ignore that detail in these types of situations.

‘DO NOT GO ON THE SUBWAY’

It’s a good, strong finish.

Hm…

‘Can’t wait for tonight’

And a dozen kiss emojis.

Yeah. That’s better.

I head out of the parking lot, trying to start focusing back in on work and less on how I spent the last half an hour.

The drive from the station to the lab is probably the most familiar one I have these days. With no commute between the lab and the apartment, it’s definitely the most frequent trip I make. It’s one of those ones that’s familiar enough that it happens on autopilot most times.

Which probably explains how three minutes pass in what feels like three seconds.

Then again, maybe that’s just the clock in my car.

Either way, I’m almost halfway back to the lab already.

 

_“Oh dear, something is happening, listeners.”_

 

I turn up the volume. There’s a rumbly sound in the background of your broadcast.

I turn down the volume. There’s a rumbly sound outside my car.

The ground is shaking.

Just to be safe, I pull over to the side of the road. Normally this isn’t a huge reason to panic, but you never know what large objects might get dislodged and come crashing down the streets.

 

_“...and since Intern Dylan never returned from his errands, likely because I told him to take the new subway to save time, I myself must go investigate.”_

 

Wha-

No.

No no no no _no no_ Cecil what did I literally _just_ text you-

 

_“In the meantime, I give you the weather.”_

 

“Fuck!”

Danger, Cecil! DNA getting washed out! People _never coming back!_

I waste a few second smashing my hands against the steering wheel in aimless frustration. I accidentally honk the horn, and it startles me back into focus.

Where’s the subway nearest to the radio station?

Let’s see how fast my car can go.

Oh god, there’s actual tire-squealing. I can see smoke rise from the tires as I swerve the car back around and speed off toward the radio station.

In an awful, distant sort of way, I suppose I should have expected this.

Because it’s _always_ you, Cecil. When something dangerous shows up in town (which is at least once a week, sometimes once a day), you’re always the first one to go poke it with a stick. You talk to the Man in the Tan Jacket. You jump through the vortex in your studio. You go on the fucking subway.

That’s not your job, Cecil. That’s not your fucking job.

I know you need to report on things. You need to keep everyone safe. But for once, could you just _trust_ that something bad is happening instead of going and figuring out what and why by yourself? Let someone else do that. You always do that. Why can’t you stop doing that?

I don’t know why I assumed that’d be any different once we started dating. I didn’t think about it at all, to be honest. It’s not like it’s any _more_ dangerous for Cecil to be doing this shit just because he has a boyfriend going into cardiac arrest somewhere while he listens to it happen. And it’s not like I care any more about Cecil’s safety just because he’s my boyfriend now and not my vaguely-crush-type-person. I cared _plenty_ back then. That’s not new.

I guess I just kind of… hoped. That I wouldn’t always have to worry about him like this.

But here I am, running through stop signs (even though my Alert Citizen card is still one punch away from immunity), feeling the earthquake in the steering wheel, with my heart pounding so fucking loudly it’s giving me a headache.

I don’t even know what I’m doing. I can't help. Cecil probably got on the fucking subway minutes ago. I’m just gonna show up to an empty studio, and an empty subway station, and… maybe an empty Cecil…

The weather ends.

I can’t breathe.

 

_“It’s spring somewhere, Night Vale.”_

 

I slam on the breaks, waaay faster than I should have.

 

_“And I must admit the last few minutes, even stretched as they were, seemingly into eons, have left me feeling renewed, returned as I am to my home after so long away.”_

 

My head falls forward onto the steering wheel.

You’re back.

Jesus, Cecil, don’t _do_ that again.

Please.

I put the car in park. Right in the middle of the street. There are cars behind me. Honking.

I just don’t give a fuck.

Because I can breathe again, and I need a minute to get oxygen everywhere it needs to go.

Something doesn’t sound right. Cecil’s talking about time, and how long he’s been gone, and he’s only been gone for a few minutes but he’s talking like it’s _years_ and something isn’t okay here.

But he’s here. He’s… fine. In some sense of the word, he’s fine. He’s still him.

I don’t know if I can handle too many more times like this, Cecil. I think we might need to have a serious discussion about this. I know that’s _significantly_ less fun that the date we’d originally planned, but I think it’s necessary.

But for now…

I shift the car out of park. I resume my drive to the station. At a much safer speed this time.

Because, Cecil, you sound like you need a hug right now.

And I am very, _very_ good at giving you hugs.

 

_“The future of urban planning is here, Night Vale, and like our own imminent futures, it is buried in the earth. Stay tuned next for a swarm of flies circling a hot mic. And, as always,_

_Good Night, Night Vale. Goodnight.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will never convince me that there aren't pre-recorded segments on the show where Cecil and Carlos spend the whole time smooching. It's a fact. I don't make the rules.
> 
> I'm working on a few new things for this story, mostly involving "Condos" and the other live shows, so there'll be more information on that in the upcoming chapters, once I sort out the details. But for now, as always, thank you so much for reading! This story is so special to me, and I can't express how grateful I am for the incredible support I'm getting from my readers.


End file.
